THE  LIBRARY 

OF 
THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE 

SUTTEE  OF  SAFA 

A  Hindoo  Romance 


BY 

DULCIE   DEAMER 


G.  W.  DILLINGHAM   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1913,  BY 
G.  W.  DILLINGHAM  COMPANY 


The  Suttee  of  Soft 


PR 

6007 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

PART    I.    SAFA  COMES  TO  DELHI 5 

PART  II.    KAMA  DEVA 65 

PART  III.    THE  EFFIGY 97 

PART  IV.    THE  SIGNAL 155 

PART    V.    ASOF 203 

PART  VI.    THE  SUTTEE .  245 


1523784 


THE  SUTTEE  OF  SAFA 

PART    I 
SAFA   COMES    TO    DELHI 


IT  was  the  last  hour  of  the  night.     The  great 
milky  star  of  the  morning  was  paling  in  the 
Eastern  sky.    Upon  the  kine  in  a  hundred  in- 
ner courts  and  upon  the  men  and  women,  sleeping 
out  of  doors,   fell  the  refreshing  coolness   of  the 
dawn.     The  ripening  fruit  hung  heavily  from  the 
weighted  branches  of  the  trees  and  the  silvery  dew 
sparkled  upon  the   freshly  opened   flowers   in  the 
palace  garden. 

The  serving  folk  within  the  marble  house  of  the 
King  were  already  astir.  An  elephant,  cruelly  torn 
by  a  tiger  in  the  last  beast  fight,  trumpeted  with 
pain.  The  Persian  pussies  of  the  Zenana  pestered 
the  girl  who  fed  them,  for  milk  warm  from  the 
cow.  An  army  of  sweepers  and  water-carriers — 
dwarfed  nightmare  creatures  of  the  half-light, 
swarmed  over  the  inlaid  pavements. 

5 


6          THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

Hundreds  of  tiny  household  fires  began  to  smoke. 
A  hunger-sharpening  smell  of  hot  bread  was  spread 
abroad.  All  over  the  city,  the  followers  of  the 
Prophet,  turning  to  the  East,  prostrated  them- 
selves, proclaiming  that  "there  is  no  god  but  God." 
In  the  temples,  worshippers  of  Ganesh  and  Vishnu, 
Shiva  and  Hanuman  and  fifty  others,  offered  sac- 
rifice with  a  tortured  squealing  of  sacred  music. 
The  Parsi,  his  mouth  and  nose  covered  with  a 
cloth,  adored  the  holy  flame  upon  the  altar.  From 
the  little  stone  and  plaster  building  a  bell  tolled, 
slight,  spiritual  and  poignant,  for  by  the  Christian's 
count  the  day  was  Sunday.  Akbar,  the  King,  was 
tolerant  of  all  worship.  Though  suckled  in  the 
faith  of  Mohammed,  he  founded  a  new  religion 
called  the  Divine  Faith  and  was  himself  adored  as  a 
ray  of  the  Supreme  Soul  of  the  Universe.  It  was 
from  curiosity  only  that  he  sent  to  Goa  for  Portu- 
guese priests. 

A  crimson  glow,  darker  than  the  color  of  fire, 
burned  low  in  the  East.  The  great,  sullen, 
gory  sun  had  come  from  a  fair  birth-bed  of 
faint,  shining  gold.  The  early  promise  of  a  beau- 
tiful serenity  was  unfulfilled;  anger  and  red 
menace  flamed  in  the  sky.  The  day,  that  had 
been  so  gloriously  heralded,  came  dyed  in  blood 
and  bearing  a  strange  portent  of  sullen 
wrath. 


SAFA    COMES    TO    DELHI       7i 

One  man  in  Delhi,  from  the  roof  of  the  marble 
house  of  Akbar,  saw  the  omen  and  understood  it. 


II 

Night  within  doors  in  India  is  stagnant,  even 
when  one  sleeps  on  a  wide  satin  mattress  with  no 
coverings.  A  Persian  cat,  snowy  as  the  mountains 
of  Kashmir,  stepped  cautiously  upon  the  bare  breast 
of  the  sleeper  and  Dil-Khusha,  the  favorite  daugh- 
ter of  Akbar,  became  conscious  of  the  purring 
pressure  and  awoke. 

The  moisture  of  heat  was  at  the  roots  of  her 
hair.  Fretfully  she  pushed  the  warm  cat  away.  It 
was  soft,  heavy  and  stubborn  after  the  nature  of 
its  kind  and  went  unwillingly.  Dil-Khusha  was  fif- 
teen and  very  beautiful,  with  the  youthful  fresh- 
ness of  newly  blossomed  virginity.  She  was  fair 
and  pale-skinned;  with  eyes  and  hair  of  jet.  From 
her  Rajput  mother  she  had  inherited  the  character- 
istic smallness  and  daintiness  of  Hindu  women;  the 
inclination  of  her  eyebrows  to  join;  the  determined 
will  and  the  strong  set  of  her  childish  jaw.  But 
Dil-Khusha  was  not  a  child.  She  lay  in  luxurious 
ease,  her  bosom  half-revealed  by  the  diaphanous 
drapery  that  clothed  her.  Everyone  talked  of  her 
beauty  and  she  was  glad.  In  the  Zenana,  beauty  is 


8          THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

a  woman's  strength ;  her  weapon  and  her  happiness. 

Curtains  of  heavy  silk,  spangled  with  silver  tin- 
sel, hid  the  walls.  The  couchant  cat  with  half- 
closed  eyes  evolved  wicked  schemes  for  the  murder 
of  fat  palace  pigeons.  In  his  heart  he  was  as  cruel 
as  an  Afghan.  Through  the  screen  of  pierced 
ebony-work  that  let  in  filtered  light  and  air,  the 
blue-gray  of  the  morning  was  visible. 

Suddenly  the  girl  sat  up,  so  quickly  that  it  was 
almost  a  spring  and  clapped  her  hands  sharply.  In 
a  moment  two  young  Hindu  girls  ran  in,  one 
clothed  in  crude  green  and  the  other  in  cruder  red. 
Gold  flowers  hung  from  their  ears  and  gilt  ankle- 
sheaths  three  inches  high  were  clasped  around  their 
ankles. 

"Madri — Kunti,  I  wish  to  dress.     Quickly  now !" 

"Wilt  thou  not  go  first  to  the  bath,  lady?"  in- 
quired Kunti  of  the  green  skirt. 

"No,"  replied  Dil-Khusha  decisively. 

Wonder  descended  upon  Kunti.  After  an  air- 
less Indian  night,  cool  water  is  a  blessing  from  the 
gods,  a  balm,  a  luxury.  The  Zenana  was  a  place  of 
much  bathing. 

Madri  of  the  red  skirt,  her  hands  busy,  seemed 
unconcerned.  As  the  loose  robe  slipped  from  Dil- 
Khusha,  leaving  her  unembarrassed,  nude  and  fresh 
as  dew  on  a  lotus  leaf,  Kunti  broke  into  exclama- 
tions of  frankest  admiration. 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI        9 

"Ah!  Why  did  not  the  Creator  bestow  on  me 
such  a  shape?  What  a  skin — and  I,  I  am  brown 
as  the  bark  of  a  tree.  What  a  bosom  for  the  hand 
of  a  lover !  Surely  Lakshmi  wast  thy  mother.  Thou 
hast  indeed  sucked  beauty  with  her  milk." 

Dil-Khusha,  the  petted  child  of  the  great  Zenana, 
was  indifferent  to  this  rhapsody.  People  had 
spoken  like  this  since  she  was  eleven. 

"Do  not  talk  so  much,"  she  ordered. 

But  Kunti  was  brimming  over  with  the  details 
of  overnight  palace  gossip. 

"They  have  found  Sita's  monkey  that  has  been 
lost  four  days,"  she  began. 

"What  monkey?"  said  Dil-Khusha. 

"The  one  that  swallowed  Sita's  topaz  earrings. 
They  found  him  floating  in  the  great  tank.  He 
had  been  dead  for  several  days." 

"And  the  earrings — were  they  in  his  stomach?" 
inquired  Madri,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  replied  Kunti  with  conviction. 
"It  was  his  greediness  that  killed  him." 

Dil-Khusha  thrust  her  feet  into  slippers  sewn 
with  silver  spangles.  Stepping  to  the  center  of  the 
room,  she  turned  to  Madri: 

"I  will  not  have  my  hair  bound  yet.  Give  me 
the  veil;  that  will  hide  it." 

With  a  turn  of  the  arm  she  enfolded  herself  in 
a  clinging,  transparent  cloth,  gilt-bordered. 


10        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

"Stay  here,"  she  said,  and  the  gesture  of  her 
small  hand  was  emphatic  and  final. 

Kunti  and  Madri  were  alone.  Through  the 
screenwork  they  could  see  the  first  flush  of  dawn 
in  the  East. 

"What  devil  possesses  her?  These  last  three 
mornings  she  is  up  before  the  court-sweepers;  will 
not  bathe;  will  not  braid  her  hair;  and  is  out  wan- 
dering in  the  lemon-tree  garden  like  a  cat  seeking 
for  birds.  It  is  madness." 

This  was  from  Kunti.  Madri  smiled  as  if  gifted 
with  superior  knowledge. 

"Who  knows?  All  women  are  mad  when  a  man 
looks  at  them  from  the  corner  of  his  eye." 

"A  man !    There  are  no  men  here." 

"Chut!    Desire  is  higher  than  the  highest  wall." 

"But  how?    We  have  eyes." 

"Have  we  not  also  hands?  Hush,  I  will  tell 
thee  a  tale.  On  a  day  that  is  past  as  I,  carrying  a 
message  to  Chunda,  the  sweetstuff  seller,  stood  close 
by  the  gate  of  the  Durbar  Court,  a  man  spoke  to 
me.  As  he  spoke  he  put  something  of  value  into 
my  hand.  He  asked  questions  and  I  answered  ac- 
cording to  my  knowledge.  Thou  and  I  know  that 
the  Princess  Dil-Khusha  goes  sometimes  to  the  sum- 
mer-house near  the  wall  before  the  dew  dries.  All 
Delhi  might  know  that;  it  would  not  harm  a  dog. 
In  the  next  dawning  the  Princess,  led  by  fancy, 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      11 

went  early  to  the  summer-house.  Thou  knowest 
there  is  a  level  roof  that  overlooks  the  lemon-tree 
garden,  also  the  wall  and  the  space  beyond.  On 
that  morning  I  chanced  to  stand  there  with  my  red 
veil  covering  my  head.  The  red  of  my  veil  was 
bright  against  the  white  of  the  marble  like  a  scarlet 
poppy  fallen  on  white  wool.  Even  from  the  space 
beyond  the  wall  it  must  have  been  seen.  I  stood 
there  a  certain  time  and  then  came  down." 

Kunti,  all  ears  and  eyes,  gasped  with  interest. 
They  were  seated  on  the  floor,  knee  touching  knee. 

"Who  is  he  ?    Dost  thou  know  ?" 

"Why  did  the  gods  give  me  wits?  Come 
closer." 

There  was  a  whisper.  Madri's  mouth  was  close 
to  Kunti 's  gold  ear-flower  and  then  came  a  squeak 
from  Kunti. 

"Not  he!  He  is  a  Rajput — a  worshipper  of 
Vishnu." 

Madri  laughed. 

"Bah !  If  he  worshipped  the  Christian's  god,  who 
died,  it  is  nothing  now.  But  this  man  is  indeed  a 
Rajput  of  the  Rajputs,"  declared  the  girl  with  cau- 
tious secrecy. 

"Canst  thou  see  aught  from  that  roof?"  inquired 
Kunti. 

"I  have  been  there  each  morning  but  I  see  little. 
tThe  man  who  talked  with  me  by  the  Durbar  Gate 


12        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

holds  his  horse  in  the  space  beyond  the  wall;  I  am 
certain  it  is  he." 

"Then  Dil-Khusha  and  this  Rajput  are  together 
in  the  summer-house?  Dost  thou  think  she  loves 
him?" 

"Didst  thou  not  feel  her  quiver  under  thy  hands 
whilst  thou  wast  fastening  her  robe?  She  was  im- 
patient for  his  embrace.  Such  as  she  are  made  for 
love,  and  when  the  right  man  comes  they  are  eager 
for  his  caresses." 

"Let  us  go  up  on  the  roof,"  suggested  Kunti; 
"we  may  get  some  glimpse  of  him.  None  will  know. 
There  is  only  Bhima  here." 

Bhima,  the  Persian  cat,  was  cleaning  the  rose- 
leaf  pinkness  of  his  toes  with  his  grating  tongue. 
The  two  girls,  their  fingers  linked,  went  out  softly. 
After  a  few  moments  Bhima  arose  and  departed, 
leaving  the  room  empty.  He,  too,  had  his  schemes. 

The  lemon-tree  garden  lay  between  the  outer- 
most enclosing  wall  of  the  palace  area  and  the  tall, 
blind  walls  of  the  Zenana.  The  garden  was  a  nar- 
row wilderness  of  lemon  trees  and  a  tangle  of  sweet- 
scented  yellow  roses.  Against  the  outer  wall  had 
been  built  a  flat-topped  summer-house  of  marble. 
The  largest  bushes,  covered  with  blossoms  of 
creamy  yellow,  pressed  close  to  the  screened  sides 
of  the  summer-house. 

In  the  summer-house  was  Dil-Khusha,  a  small, 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      13 

shapely  creature  with  a  face  of  alluring  and  seduc- 
tive charm.  She  was  seated  upon  the  floor,  with 
her  veil  half  slipping  from  her.  Her  heart  was  flut- 
tering as  if  in  panic  and  her  fingers  were  cold  with 
nervousness.  Three  mornings  ago  in  this  little 
rose-walled  room  there  had  appeared  a  sudden  ap- 
parition. She  had  met  it  with  terror  and  a  flare  of 
indignation.  Then  her  eyes  had  fallen  before  the 
admiration  in  the  man's  face.  Quickly  she  had 
veiled  herself,  but  not  too  closely. 

On  the  next  morning,  after  dreaming  of  him 
through  a  whole  night,  she  was  there  again,  know- 
ing he  would  come,  but  telling  herself  that  he  would 
not.  The  soft,  bold  words  of  that  meeting  had 
shaken  her  with  quivering  throes  of  exultant  joy. 
Outwardly  she  had  been  timid  and  aloof,  but  be- 
neath it  a  wild  wish  had  thrilled  her.  She  longed 
for  him  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  clasp  her 
tightly  to  him.  On  that  day  had  come  the  certainty 
that  she  loved  him.  And  hers  was  no  longer  the 
love  of  a  child.  She  waited  breathlessly,  knowing 
that  when  he  came  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her,  her 
quickened  womanhood  would  yield  to  him  all  that 
he  desired. 

With  the  dawn  came  a  heavily  cloaked  figure 
riding  a  noble  bay  horse.  The  rider's  white,  shroud- 
like  cloak  was  wrapped  closely  about  him,  as  though 
for  protection  against  the  coolness  of  the  morning. 


14        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

A  bare-footed  sayce  in  plain  livery  trotted  by  the 
bridle.  The  stallion  carried  himself  like  a  Maha- 
rajah among  horses.  Prone  figures,  like  corpses 
wrapped  in  grave-cloths,  were  on  the  silent  thresh- 
olds and  at  the  sides  of  the  roadway.  A  single 
branch  weighted  with  fruit  thrust  itself  over  the 
stone  wall.  A  skeleton  leper  slept  on  the  naked 
earth.  At  a  touch  the  bay  horse  sidled  up  to  the 
wall  until  the  stirrup  scraped  the  stone,  then  he 
checked  himself  and  stood  as  immovable  as  a  steel 
pillar.  His  rider,  standing  erect  upon  the  saddle, 
put  his  hands  on  the  coping.  With  a  sudden  spring 
and  a  strong  effort  he  gained  the  height.  The 
finely  trained  Arabian  horse  did  not  move  until  the 
sayce  led  him  quickly  across  to  the  shadow  of  a 
house  yard  enclosure,  clay-built  and  whitened  with 
lime.  The  place  was  a  lodging  of  loose  dancing 
girls,  and  wine  could  be  had  there.  The  presence 
of  a  noble  horse  and  his  groom  near  such  a  house 
could  cause  no  comment.  The  passerby  would  grin 
behind  his  beard,  praying  that  he  too  might  some 
day  be  rich. 

The  sayce,  squatting  under  his  horse's  nose,  was 
aware  of  a  red  flicker  high  up  on  a  parapetted  roof. 
He  noted  a  green  flicker  also  and  wondered,  but 
the  girl  had  been  heavily  bribed.  She  would  not 
betray  her  mistress.  He  had  done  his  work  too 
well  for  that. 


SAP  A     COMES     TO     DELHI      15 

The  cloaked  rider  had  dropped  from  the  wall- 
top  to  the  roof  of  a  yellow  marble  summer-house 
five  feet  below.  An  unbalustraded  flight  of  steps 
ran  down  into  the  rose  bushes.  At  the  bottom  of 
the  flight  Rajah  Adhiraj  cast  off  the  shrouding 
cloak  and  among  the  yellow  roses  he  stood  like  a 
tall  young  god  of  love.  But  this  god  was  wide 
across  the  shoulders,  dark-skinned  and  strong- 
jawed,  bred  of  a  line  of  righting  kings.  He  wore 
no  jewels,  save  those  on  the  head  of  a  long  dagger 
that  hung  by  his  side.  It  was  a  madness  beyond 
madness  for  him  to  be  there. 

Advancing  eagerly,  the  young  man  came  to  the 
cool  threshold  of  the  summer-house.  The  passion 
of  a  lover  and  the  keenness  of  a  hunter  gave  him  an 
exquisite  sensation  as  though  he  had  drunk  sweet 
wine.  Without  pausing  he  went  in  quickly  and  de- 
terminedly. Dil-Khusha  had  heard  him  coming; 
first  upon  the  stair,  then  through  the  parting  of 
the  bushes.  Now  a  hot  and  cold  painfulness  laid 
hold  of  her;  her  heart  stopped  suddenly  and  then 
leaped  like  a  spurred  horse.  She  was  standing 
veiled,  both  hands  clutched  together  on  her  breast. 
Through  the  fineness  of  the  muslin  veil  she  could 
see  him  where  he  stood. 

Adhiraj  was  not  three  feet  from  the  small,  thinly- 
veiled  figure  with  little  silvery  slippers  and  much- 
ringed  childish  hands — hands  that  clutched  each 


16        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

other  tremblingly.  The  desire  to  take  her  in  his 
arms  rose  in  him  like  a  hot  flood. 

"Hast  thou  no  word  for  me,  Heart's  Delight?" 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  quivered  with  emo- 
tion, but  her  answer  came  timid  and  formal — the 
answer  of  Zenana  training. 

"I — I  fear  it  is  an  immodesty  to  speak  with  thee 
alone  in  this  manner." 

But  the  man  beside  her,  so  near,  would  not  take 
denial. 

"Am  I  no  more  to  thee  than  that?" 

His  hand  fell  lightly  upon  one  of  hers.  He  did 
not  speak.  Under  that  touch  her  hand,  soft,  warm 
and  tremulous,  yielded  instantly  to  the  desire  of  his. 
She  was  glowing  from  head  to  foot ;  mute  and  sud- 
denly pliant  to  his  will.  But  a  frailness,  a  purity 
like  the  untouched  bloom  of  flowers  held  him  from 
her. 

They  stood  very  close  together  in  the  summer- 
house.  The  sun  had  risen  and  the  light,  filtering 
through  the  carved,  cream-colored  marble,  netted 
the  floor  with  faint,  fretwork  patterns.  The  place 
was  very  quiet,  but  the  hour  was  perilous. 

The  man  held  the  girl's  hand  in  his  own.  He 
spoke  in  a  passionate  whisper: 

"I  have  this  precious  jewel,  thy  hand;  it  is  like 
a  smooth  pearl.  There  is  but  one  thing  more — 
that  I  may  see  thy  face." 


SAFA     COMES    TO    DELHI      17 

She  could  not  deny  him.  The  pressure  in  his 
voice  was  like  a  force  enveloping  her.  Slowly  she 
raised  the  veil — the  shrine  of  maidenhood  and  wed- 
ded chastity — and  held  it  from  her.  Never  had  she 
stood  thus  before  any  man  save  her  father.  She 
glowed,  looking  steadily  at  the  pavement,  feeling 
his  gaze  like  naked  heat.  After  a  long  silent  mo- 
ment Adhiraj  spoke  again. 

"By  the  gods,  thou  art  perfect!  Thou  wast 
surely  the  first-born  of  thy  mother.  I  fear  to  touch 
thee  lest  thou  shouldst  break  under  my  touch  like 
the  blossoms  of  peaches,  but  my  soul  and  body  cry 
for  thee.  Why  wilt  thou  not  look  in  my  eyes,  Dil- 
Khusha?" 

Coquetry  stirred  in  the  girl;  a  coquetry  that  was 
hungry  for  the  man's  embrace.  She  half  veiled  her- 
self. 

"My  lord  has  seen  enough,"  she  replied  de- 
murely. 

"Dil-Khusha!" 

He  had  both  her  hands  in  his  grip  and  for  the 
first  time  she  was  facing  her  lover  fully.  The  mo- 
ment had  come. 

"Dost  thou  love  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  whispered  tensely. 

It  was  unusually  still  in  the  summer-house.  The 
two  who  were  in  it  might  have  been  one,  for  the 
young  man  had  the  girl  pressed  close  to  him,  her 


18        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

slim  arms  were  about  his  neck  and  for  the  first  time 
a  man's  lips  were  upon  hers.  The  solid  earth 
seemed  melting  beneath  them.  In  the  glow 
of  golden  light  that  filtered  through  a  net-work  of 
roses  and  marble  he  held  her  in  his  arms 
while  she  yielded  the  virginity  of  her  lips  to 
his. 

Then  Dil-Khusha  felt  again  the  pavement  under 
her  feet  and  she  was  aware  that  she  was  in  the 
little  domed  house  of  stone,  with  the  damp  of  the 
garden  tangle  discoloring  its  bases  and  tiny  trans- 
parent lizards  haunting  the  walls.  For  joy  or  sor- 
row she  was  a  woman  now  and  her  sorrow  and 
her  joy  lay  in  the  hands  of  the  man  who  had  wak- 
ened her  womanhood  with  his  lips.  That  man,  as 
he'held  her,  felt  strong  new  sensations.  The  ancient 
Rajput  reverence  for  their  own  women  flamed  in 
him  and  from  the  moment  of  that  all-yielding,  child- 
pure  kiss  he  could  have  fallen  before  her  as  before 
a  goddess  in  a  shrine.  The  Rajput  blood  was  red 
in  her  veins,  too,  and  he  knew  his  love  and  hers 
were  united  until  death. 

"Dost  thou  love  me  indeed?"  asked  Dil-Khusha, 
with  her  head  upon  his  breast.  "Oh,  my  lord,  I  am 
no  more  than  a  child." 

"Thou  shalt  be  the  mother  of  my  children  if  the 
gods  think  me  worthy — my  wife." 

And  the  girl  who  clung  to  him  whispered  very 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      19 

low  against  his  heart:  "them  art  my  husband,  my 
beloved." 

Far  away  the  faint  throb  of  a  drum  was  heard. 
A  dead  man  was  being  carried  out  to  the  place  of 
burning,  his  widow  following.  The  pyre  was 
builded  for  the  living  and  the  dead. 

Presently  Adhiraj  spoke  again. 

"To-day,  in  the  Durbar,  I  will  ask  thy  father  for 
thee." 

Dil-Khusha's  arms  about  him  seemed  to  tighten. 

"Thou  dost  fear  he  will  refuse  me,  Heart's  De- 
light? Perhaps  he  may;  it  is  in  the  lap  of  the 
Great  One.  But  by  the  blood  of  my  fathers  I  will 
take  thee  to  my  heart  though  a  thousand  men  in 
armor  barred  the  way!" 

Then  he  besought  her  gently:  "Wilt  thou  go 
with  me  if  it  should  be  against  thy  father's  word?" 

"What  is  a  wife  if  she  follows  not  her  husband? 
Thy  will  is  my  will  and  when  thou  callest  me  I 
am  there." 

The  sun  was  higher.  An  indefinable  unrest  was 
all  about  them;  the  stir  of  numberless  folk  awaken- 
ing to  the  manifold  ways  of  life — a  mosaic  of 
sounds.  A  premonition  of  danger  aroused  them. 
i  The  bright  patches  of  sunshine  that  had  widened  on 
the  floor  were  more  ominous  than  blood.  Were  the 
gardeners  and  water-sprinklers  already  in  the  gar- 
den? 


20        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

Dil-Khusha,  kneeling  and  listening,  heard  the 
rustling  of  the  bushes;  then  a  silence,  and  soon 
came  the  dulled  sound  of  the  ring  of  a  horse's 
hoofs. 


Ill 

The  same  sun  that  had  shot  a  myriad  bright 
arrows  through  the  fretwork  of  the  garden-house 
in  the  early  morning  now  stood  high  above  the  river 
Jumma.  Basking  in  its  warm  rays  the  buffaloes, 
uncouth  and  gross,  like  beasts  fashioned  by  a  child 
from  lumps  of  putty,  appeared  to  feel  some  added 
stir  of  pleasure  as  they  took  their  mud  baths  along 
the  river's  edge. 

Back  from  the  river  was  waste  land:  a  handful 
of  palm  trees,  the  bare  feeding  grounds  of  the  buf- 
faloes, whereon  were  weeds,  broken  earthenware 
and  tent-shelters,  where  nondescript  beings — scare- 
crows of  bones  and  rags,  were  housed.  Dominat- 
ing the  bareness  of  the  dusty  growth-tangle,  the 
crisscrossing  foot-tracks  and  fronting  the  wide  ex- 
panse of  sleepy-sliding  water,  a  tall,  turreted  white- 
ness of  hewn  stone  rose  in  chastity,  like  the  rising 
of  the  pale  moon.  It  was  the  riverward  face  of  the 
palace.  The  arch  of  a  great  central  window,  set 
in  tracery,  delicate  as  ivory  carving,  overlooked  the 
waste  spaces  and  the  crowd  that  was  gathered  below 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      21 

it.  The  faces  of  the  people  were  turned  to  the 
window.  They  were  all  poor  folk,  many  of  them 
clad  cheaply  in  cotton  cloth,  flimsy  as  a  spider's 
mesh.  There  were  some  women  in  the  gathering. 
Most  of  these  were  anxious-eyed  with  sick  babies 
wrapped  close  in  their  veils  or  with  blind  and  dis- 
torted children  clinging  to  them.  One  woman,  car- 
ried on  a  string  bed,  screamed  that  an  evil  spirit 
had  paralyzed  her  and  was  holding  her  down. 

A  brazen  gong  within  the  palace  thundered.  Im- 
mediately the  crowd  went  down  upon  its  knees 
among  the  weeds,  the  broken  pottery  and  the  dry 
buffalo  dung.  Some  prostrated  themselves.  It  wTas 
as  though  the  shrine  doors  were  thrown  open  and 
the  idol  exhibited.  Only  the  crows  in  the  palm- 
tops were  indifferent.  "Ca-a,  ca-a-a,"  they  said, 
derisively. 

In  the  balcony  of  the  open  window  stood  a  man 
who  bowed  himself  to  the  east,  worshipping  in  a 
loud  voice.  There  were  others  behind  him,  display- 
ing the  glittering  sparkle  of  cut  gems  on  rich  ma- 
terials. Akbar  was  adoring  the  sun  and  those  on 
their  knees  in  the  plain  were  adoring  Akbar.  To 
them  he  was  a  tangible  god.  Unheeded,  a  knot 
of  pariah  dogs  fought  for  a  dead  fowl. 

Again  the  gong  boomed.  The  shrine  doors  had 
closed.  A  babel  arose  in  the  plain.  The  woman 
on  the  string  bed,  who  was  possessed  of  a  strong 


22        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

hysteria,  cried  that  the  devil  had  left  her.  She 
then  arose  and  walked.  Immediately  she  became 
the  center  of  a  crowd.  "The  Great  One  looked  on 
her  and  she  can  walk,"  a  voice  cried  shrilly. 

"I  would  offer  him  cakes  steeped  in  clarified  but- 
ter if  there  were  any  priest  to  receive  them,"  said 
another. 

"What  foolishness!  Dost  thou  think  he  hath 
need  of  thy  cakes?" 

"Pali  hath  been  eight  days  as  weak  as  a  babe 
since  this  devil  held  her,"  said  another  of  the  women 
who  were  chattering  all  together.  The  piteous-eyed 
mothers  with  the  ailing  babies  stole  mutely  away. 
One,  a  fourteen-year-old  girl,  wept  softly.  "It  is 
the  will  of  the  gods.  He — my  son,  must  die."  And 
the  tears  crept  down  her  childish  face,  now  con- 
vulsed in  a  grief-stricken  agony  far  beyond  her 
years. 

Before  the  central  gate  of  the  palace  a  great 
square  lay  like  a  level  pavemented  plain.  It  was  the 
promenade  of  fifty  elephants;  the  vortex  of  trade, 
news  and  scandal;  the  mouth  and  ears  of  Delhi. 
Thither  drifted  the  morning  worshippers  of  Akbar, 
where  they  were  quickly  sucked  into  the  maelstrom 
of  life. 

A  sweetmeat  seller,  surrounded  with  trays, 
vended  green  pistachio  slabs  flecked  with  gold  tin- 
sel. It  was  "the  favorite  food  of  the  Great  One's 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      23 

Zenana."  Men  with  trained  dogs  and  monkeys  led 
them  up  and  down  seeking  an  audience.  A  girl 
danced,  balancing  a  brass  plate  on  a  stick,  while  the 
musician  twanged  a  one-stringed  instrument.  For- 
tune-tellers abounded,  and  snake-charmers,  each 
leading  a  tame  mongoose,  jostled  one  another. 

An  elephant,  draped  to  the  ground  in  blue  velvet 
with  sweeping  silver  fringes,  strode  through.  Back- 
ward fell  the  folk  before  his  swinging  trunk.  ,  He 
created  a  commotion  like  an  eddy  of  wind  in  a 
flower  bed.  Wearers  of  red-veil  flowers  and  yellow- 
veil  flowers,  white  turbans,  green  turbans  and  rain- 
bow-twisted turbans  swarmed  everywhere.  Beg- 
gars swathed  in  bandages  dragged  themselves  a  few 
feet  in  the  rear  of  the  crowd,  screaming  for  mercy. 
A  stripped  athlete  ran  alongside  slapping  his  chest. 
Hideous  naked  ascetics,  like  famished  wild  beasts, 
begged  for  their  gods,  almost  clutching  the  velvet 
harness  of  the  elephant,  and  the  sweetmeat  seller 
waved  forward  a  basket  of  sugar  balls.  A  small, 
shrewd  eye  observed  this  fact  and  the  elephant,  tak- 
ing a  dozen  in  one  trunk-reach,  strode  onward. 
From  the  silver-roofed  howdah  came  a  sudden  scat- 
tering of  coins  and  the  hidden  Amir  and  the 
mahout  and  the  shameless  thief  of  sugar  balls 
passed  mountainously  beneath  the  towered  gate- 
way. 

A  woman  squatted  among  little  heaps  of  mari- 


,24        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

/golds  that  were  more  vivid  than  the  color  of 
oranges.  Her  son  sat  by  her  feet.  They  were 
strangers  lately  arrived. 

"What  is  behind  all  that?"  asked  the  little  boy, 
|  pointing  to  the  arched  elephant  gate  with  its  pol- 
ished whiteness  of  mother-of-pearl  and  to  the  small 
gilded  cupolas,  spike-topped. 

"That  is  the  house  of  the  Great  One,  who  holds 
life  and  death  and  gives  justice." 

"Is  he  a  god?  Has  he  an  elephant  like  the  one 
with  the  beautiful  blue  coat?" 

Maybe  he  hath  a  hundred;  who  knows!" 

"I  wish  I  had  five  hundred.  I  would  be  a  Rajah 
with  a  full  belly." 

"Hush — hush.  Some  pots  hold  milk,  some  water, 
such  as  we  must  weep  and  be  hungry;  the  Great 
Ones  know  nothing  of  tears." 

The  people  parted  again.  A  black-painted  palan- 
quin, with  closed  panels,  came  swiftly  through. 
Eight  coolies  shouldered  the  poles.  An  old  man, 
stringy-sinewed  as  a  caravan  dog,  dour  and  whis- 
kered like  a  son  of  the  fighting  caste,  went  with 
them.  Swiftly  they  passed  to  the  shadow  of  the 
giant  gateway  arch  and  swiftly  the  black  palan- 
quin was  borne  across  the  broad  marble  threshold  of 
the  Great  King.  A  baby  boy,  playing  at  his 
mother's  ankles,  saw  the  dark  thing  pass  and 
screamed  in  fright  at  the  sight  of  it.  But  his 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI       25 

mother  gazed  after  the  palanquin  in  speechless  won- 
der and  amazement. 

"Who  can  it  be?"  she  queried  eagerly.     Only  a 
dubious  shake  of  the  head  answered  her. 


IV 

When  the  god  Twastri  created  woman,  he 

Took  among  other  things : 

The  undulating  curve  of  the  serpent, 

The  light  shivering  of  the  grass  blade, 

The  velvet  of  the  flowers, 

The  lightness  of  the  feather, 

The  inconstancy  of  the  wind, 

The  vanity  of  the  peacock, 

The  hardness  of  the  diamond, 

The  cruelty  of  the  tiger, 

The  chill  of  the  snow, 

The  cackling  of  the  parrot, 

And  the  cooing  of  the  turtle  dove. 

Hindu  Legend. 

Dil-Khusha  sat  for  a  long  while  in  the  summer- 
house.  It  was  a  holy  place  to  her.  To  sit  there 
was  almost  to  feel  the  pressure  of  his  arms  about 
her,  though  lightly  as  a  dream  enclasps,  while  he 
had  held  her  with  his  full  strength.  She  drew  out 
an  absurd  dagger — three  inches  of  slight  steel  in  a 
sheath  of  ivory,  whereon  were  delicately  carved,  in- 
credibly minute  elephants  with  garnet  sparks  for 


26        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

eyes.  It  had  been  a  toy  of  her  mother's.  The 
daughters  of  Rajput  Kings  loved  trinkets  with  a 
sharp,  secret  tooth,  and  that  tiny  blade  could  put 
an  end  to  all  things  by  a  stab  in  breast  or  throat. 
Dil-Khusha,  fingering  it,  knew  with  a  thrill  of 
pleasure  that  she  also  possessed  the  courage  to  take 
her  own  life  at  her  lover's  will  or  need,  calmly,  like 
the  Rajput  women  who  had  gone  before.  The 
story  of  them,  told  in  the  dusk,  had  filled  her  with 
marveling  at  their  strength  of  spirit  and  a  sickness 
when  she  thought  of  the  blood  and  the  pain.  That 
was  yesterday,  when  as  a  child  of  fifteen  she  played 
with  a  Persian  cat. 

Reluctantly  she  arose  from  the  cool  pavement  and 
came  very  slowly  through  the  garden.  The  grass 
was  wet  from  the  dribbling  water-skin  and  the  earth 
paths  had  been  swept  with  a  stiff  broom.  The  girl 
was  joyously  alert  and  beautifully  happy.  Sud- 
denly her  pigeons,  with  white  satin  breasts,  de- 
scended on  her  in  a  tumult  of  fluttering  friendli- 
ness. She  stood  still  until  they  were  all  bobbing 
tamely  about  her  feet.  It  was  surely  an  omen  of 
happiness.  The  perfect  doves,  corn-fattened  and 
confident,  had  come  suddenly  upon  her  like  white 
joys.  A  soft  grumble  of  cooing  came  from  the 
ground.  Dil-Khusha  made  a  little  move  and  saw 
something  else.  One  of  the  pigeons,  with  bright 
drops  of  blood  upon  its  ruffled  plumage,  lay  un- 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      27 

noticed  upon  the  earth.  A  small,  feather-clad  life, 
that  had  never  known  hunger,  had  ended  in  a  tiny 
flutter  of  pain  and  fear.  Or  was  it  an  omen  signify- 
ing the  death  of  peace  and  love?  Looking  closely 
at  the  pathway,  she  saw  that  the  ants  had  come  out 
to  investigate  this  garden  death,  and  that  the  dead 
bird's  mates  trod  indifferently  about  him  on  in- 
turned  coralline  toes.  But  Dil-Khusha  went 
quickly  in  from  her  paradise. 

In  the  upper  room  Madri  and  Kunti,  unemo- 
tional, sat  with  feet  tucked  beneath  them.  Bhima, 
white  as  the  doves,  patronized  an  enormous  cushion. 
He  was  relaxed,  languid,  serene.  All  three  were 
hypocrites.  The  two  girls  had  spied  upon  their 
betters  and  the  cat  was  a  murderer. 

Dil-Khusha  abandoned  the  muslin  veil. 

"I  will  bathe  now,"  she  said.  Then  she  saw 
Bhima. 

"My  Amir  of  cats !  He  has  not  eaten  this  morn- 
ing; he  must  have  a  roasted  woodcock,  Kunti." 

Bhima  had  not  eaten.  Pigeon  blood  was  pleas- 
ant, but  a  raw  pigeon  he  despised.  He  felt  peace- 
ful after  his  exercise. 

Madri  and  Kunti,  with  meek,  downcast  eyes,  went 
out  before  the  Princess,  to  prepare  the  bath. 

The  bath-place  was  a  great,  square  room.  Fif- 
teen feet  from  the  floor  the  walls  were  inset  with 
open  alabaster  screens  and  strained  through  these 


28        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

filtered  a  colorless  light  that  filled  the  place  with  a 
refreshing  coolness.  Lengths  of  tapestry  cloth  from 
Kashmir,  worked  with  coarse  silk  the  color  of  yel- 
low chrysanthemums,  hid  the  naked  walls,  and  long 
carpets,  their  intricate  coloring  somber  as  dark  jew- 
els, covered  the  floor. 

As  Dil-Khusha  came  to  the  tank-edge  the  women 
lying  on  the  raised  floor,  laid  with  thick-tufted  rugs, 
spoke  to  her,  but  she  was  very  silent.  Standing 
on  the  cold  brink,  inlaid  with  chequered  lapis  laz- 
zuli  and  red  marble,  she  undressed  and  went  down 
between  the  fans  of  growing  palms  as  into  a  forest 
lake.  The  water  was  well  above  her  waist  and 
Kunti  poured  it  upon  her  shoulders  from  a  bowl. 
Then  she  broke  her  fast  with  fruit  and  warm 
cream,  strips  of  bread  and  sweet  cakes.  The  chief 
women  of  the  Zenana  were  there.  Draupadi,  the 
childless  daughter  of  a  Rajput  king.  She  had  moth- 
ered Dil-Khusha  and  taken  great  pride  in  her.  Sita, 
lithe,  supple,  with  large  soul-drawing  eyes.  She 
had  been  bred  to  charm  snakes.  Suvona,  the  acro- 
bat and  dancer,  who  had  come  from  the  north,  was 
like  a  stray  Persian  kitten.  She  had  long,  light 
hair,  a  face  like  a  pearl  and  a  soft,  sensual  mouth, 
pink  as  a  white  cat's  muzzle.  Suvona  was  the  choice 
of  Akbar,  the  pale,  prideful  Lord  of  the  Zenana. 

Draupadi,  handsome  and  fleshy,  patted  Dil-Khu- 
sha's  wet  hair. 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      29 

"Thou  hast  no  voice,  Heart's  Delight.  What  is 
it?" 

"Nothing.  It  was  hot  last  night;  I  am  tired," 
she  answered  listlessly. 

"Thou  hast  the  look  of  a  just-married  bride." 

Suvona  yawned,  beautifully.  There  was  some- 
thing insolent  and  animal-like  about  her  splendid 
teeth  that  were  not  small.  She  hated  this  praise 
and  petting  of  Dil-Khusha — Dil-Khusha  who  looked 
at  her  as  though  she  were  a  blank  wall.  If 
anyone  received  praise  it  should  be  herself.  She 
was  incomparable,  sought  out  by  the  Great  One. 
But  Suvona  had  cunning  and  shrewd  foresight. 
She  kept  her  mouth  shut  before  the  favorite  child 
of  Akbar. 

"Sita,  tell  us  more  of  the  prophet,"  commanded 
Suvona,  abandoning  herself  to  several  fat,  amber 
cushions. 

"What  prophet,  Sita?"  Dil-Khusha  was  not  curi- 
ous, but  silence  bred  questions  and  suspicion. 

"Oh,  they  call  him  that,  but  he  is  only  a  boy, 
this  Kama  Deva." 

"Kama  Deva?" 

"The  last  of  the  Vickrams,"  said  Draupadi. 

There  was  no  word  for  a  moment  or  two  and  the 
bespangled  girls  and  women  leaned  closer  together. 
The  ending  of  the  house  of  Vickram  in  blood  and 
burning,  as  his  carved  stone  city  was  left  an  open 


30        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

sepulcher  by  the  victors,  carried  a  suggestion  of 
horror  even  after  seventeen  years. 

"He  says  he  is  the  son  of  Vickram,"  said  Sita, 
who  seemed  to  know  everything  about  it. 

"Young?" 

"Yes,  a  boy  with  no  promise  of  a  beard,  but  beau- 
tiful; straighter  than  a  palm  and  superbly  tall." 

This  talk  of  handsome  young  humanity  had  all 
the  virgin  girls  listening  thirstily.  Madri  and  Kunti 
listened  with  them. 

"What  a  boy  to  play  with  a  woman's  heart," 
purred  Suvona. 

"I  had  it  from  Gohar,  the  second  wife  of  Asaf," 
said  Sita.  "She  saw  him  through  the  parting  of  a 
curtain  and  says  he  was  as  desirable  as  a  precious 
jewel.  Asaf  laid  hands  on  him  a  week  ago.  She 
says  the  boy  rages  against  the  Great  One  like  a 
mad  fakir." 

"And  prophesies?" 

"They  say  so." 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

"Here,  in  the  prisons,  Gohar  said." 

"It  is  like  a  tragic  play,"  said  Suvona  yawning 
with  closed  eyes. 

"I  wish  I  had  been  at  that  curtain,"  said  Madri, 
very  low,  picking  at  Kunti's  ear-flower. 

Sita  sat  among  them  like  a  small  sphinx.  The 
moonstone  lying  between  her  brows  seemed  to  era- 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      31 

die  the  wise  night  in  a  lucid  drop  of  bluish  water. 
She  loved  to  cause  a  little  vortex  of  gossip  in  the 
scented  stagnation  of  the  Zenana,  where  even  the 
discovery  of  a  decomposed  pet  monkey  would  be 
talked  of  for  days.  And  there  was  more  to  come. 
Sita  began  again : 

"Gohar  says  there  is  a  woman  in  the  story  of 
this  boy." 

"A  woman !"  twittered  the  girls. 

"Safa — that  was  what  Gohar  said.  Have  any 
of  ye  heard  the  name?" 

"I  have  heard  it,"  said  Draupadi. 

Sita  went  on  quickly  lest  another  should  take  up 
the  telling. 

"For  five  seasons  or  less,  or  more — I  do  not 
know — she  has  watched  this  Kama  Deva  from  far 
off,  following  his  tracks  like  a  leopardess  trailing 
a  young  stag.  His  tribesmen  know  it,  his  partisans 
know  it,  but  he — the  boy — knows  it  not." 

A  twelve-year-old  girl,  whose  hair,  coiled  at  the 
back,  was  smooth  and  sedate  as  a  matron's,  inter- 
rupted. 

"How  can  a  woman  live  so,  wandering  openly 
like  a  stray  dog?  Is  she  a  bad  one,  a  bazaar- 
walker?" 

"Thou  fool!  This  is  no  man-governed  bearer  of 
babes  and  boiler  of  rice.  All  women  are  not  cast 
in  one  fashion  like  silver  anklets — some  tarnished, 


32        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

some  clean.  Thou  dost  not  know  what  she  may 
be.  I  do  not  know.  Gohar,  the  second  wife  of 
Asaf,  knoweth  no  more  than  I,  but  those  who  spoke 
of  her  were  very  much  afraid." 

"Why  doth  she  watch  him,  Sita?" 

"That  his  horse  may  not  throw  a  shoe  and  fall 
with  him;  that  the  shivering  fever  may  not  come 
to  him  when  it  rains.  Once  half  a  hundred  Af- 
ghan butchers  on  Arabian  horses  and  with  sickle 
swords  at  their  flanks  gave  him  free  road  because 
of  her.  So  Gohar  says." 

Even  Dil-Khusha  was  listening  now.  A  tame 
slate-plumaged  dove  pecked  unnoticed  at  a  saucer 
of  conserved  pomegranate  seeds,  swallowing  them 
all  greedily.  Only  Suvona  lay  feigning  the  indif- 
ference of  sleep.  Delicious  terror  possessed  the 
listeners.  A  vapor  of  mystery  curled  about  them 
wherein  the  chain  bridles  of  Arabian  horses  rat- 
tled and  a  woman,  many-armed  like  a  goddess,  kept 
watch  over  a  beautiful  young  man  with  joined  eye- 
brows. 

"Do  they  say  whether  she  is  old?"  inquired  Ma- 
dri. 

"She  is  not  old." 

"Oh,  Mahadeo !  Where  are  we  if  the  Great  One 
seeth  her  with  the  corner  of  his  eye  ?" 

This  from  the  girl  of  twelve,  the  daughter  of  a 
minor  king,  whom  Akbar  had  taken  to  wife  a  month 


before  for  reasons  of  policy.  He  had  only  seen 
her  once. 

Draupadi  laughed. 

"Dost  thou  fear  for  thy  credit  with  him?  We 
will  offer  milk  and  rice  that  the  Dead  Ones  may 
avert  such  a  happening." 

Suvona  opened  her  eyes.  She  was  lying  full 
length,  nude  to  the  waist,  and  sunk  sensuously 
among  yellow  cushions. 

"Bah!  What  is  all  this  chatter  of  a  jungle-roam- 
ing witch?  A  husbandless  thing  wrapped  in  saf- 
fron— ye  know  the  breed.  If  she  were  the  very 
salt  of  beauty  and  came  daily  to  the  palace  gate 
unveiled  should  I  lose  sleep  because  of  it?" 

She  pulled  at  a  long  string  of  pearls  wound  three 
times  round  her  neck  and  the  silk  broke. 

"I  had  these  from  the  hand  of  the  Great  One 
two  nights  ago.  There  are  a  full  hundred  here, 
and  each  matches  each  more  perfectly  than  a  twin." 

She  threw  the  broken  string  from  her  and  the 
scattered  pearls  ran  everywhere  on  the  ice-smooth 
floor. 

"I  will  ask  for  another  string  to-night  and  the 
pearls  of  it  shall  be  larger  than  peas." 


34        THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 


Madri  dawdled  beneath  the  awning  of  a  sweet- 
meat vendor's  shop. 

The  shop  floor  was  very  high  and  the  seller  of 
sweetmeats  squatted  thereon  behind  lines  of  delect- 
able defences.  It  was  early  afternoon  and  hot.  The 
shop  shadow  had  width;  the  seller  of  sweetmeats 
was  a  widower  and  Madri  had  the  greediness  of  a 
bee  for  sugar. 

She  leaned  her  elbows  on  the  level  of  the  window 
and  took  a  finger  of  pink  jelly  dusted  with  sugar 
powder. 

"Who  will  pay  for  that?"  inquired  the  seller  of 
sweetmeats. 

"Thou  niggard!     I  am  privileged." 

"So  ?    When  wilt  thou"  marry  me  ?" 

Madri  took  a  crystallized  Persian  peach. 

"To  how  many  children  art  thou  a  father?" 

"To  none.     I  wedded  a  barren  woman." 

"Thy  father  and  mother  were  liars.  Thou  hast 
five.  There  shall  have  been  no  bearing  in  the  house 
I  enter." 

The  sweetmeat  seller  gazed  admiringly  at  the 
tight,  vivid  bodice  of  the  girl,  computing  the  num- 
ber of  boys  that  should  be  born  to  such  a  one — 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      35 

his  own  were  daughters — and  Madri  picked  a  ball 
of  almond  paste  from  the  hollow  of  a  great  leaf. 

Directly  opposite  were  the  imposing  marble  pil- 
lars, each  column  tall  as  a  tree  and  foliaged  with 
heavy  carving.  They  sentineled  the  Durbar  court. 
In  the  great  widths  of  pavement  only  an  elephant 
could  move  with  dignity. 

Two  men  together  and  another,  coming  singly, 
met  before  the  open  front  of  the  sweetmeat  shop 
where  stood  the  palace  girl  in  red.  The  man  who 
had  come  alone  was  draped  in  long  garments  of  a 
dingy  whiteness.  He  had  a  white  beard  and  sharp, 
sour  eyes,  while  the  mustiness  of  stored  manuscripts 
clung  to  him  like  a  perfume.  The  other  two,  Khu- 
zru  Khan,  the  son  of  an  Amir,  and  old  Girbur,  who 
had  grown  frosty  whiskered  in  the  faithful  service 
of  Akbar,  gave  him  greeting : 

"Peace  be  with  thee,  oh  Mulraz." 

Mulraz  almost  snarled. 

"Seeing  that  I  traffic  with  neither  wine  nor 
women,  how  should  I  be  otherwise  than  at  peace? 
Can  ye  say  likewise?" 

Young  Khuzru  Khan,  who  had  spent  the  night 
with  a  nautch  dancer,  became  uneasy. 

"Come,  Mulraz,"  he  said,  feeling  a  moustache 
that  was  still  delicate  as  silk,  "what  does  this  day 
portend  ?" 

"No  good  to  Akbar." 


36        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

Girbur  stiffened  like  an  old  dog. 

"What  sayest  thou?" 

Mulraz  put  forth  a  hand,  old,  unwashed  and 
nervous,  with  a  monstrous  diamond  on  the  middle 
finger. 

"The  heavens  have  spoken  unto  the  earth;  again 
I  say  it — no  good  to  Akbar." 

"No  good;  what  meanest  thou?" 

"Listen!  This  day  as  I  arose  I  saw" — Madri  be- 
hind him,  with  eyes  round  as  the  balls  of  almond 
paste,  was  listening,  too — "the  sun  rise." 

"Oh  mother  Durga!  Chunda,  didst  thou  hear 
that?  He  saw  the  sun  rise!" 

Listeners  in  the  shadow  of  the  sweetstuff  ven- 
dor's shop  gave  way  to  impertinent  laughter. 
Abruptly  Mulraz  went  on,  the  light  of  the  diamond 
shaking  on  his  tense,  quivering  hand. 

"This  morning  did  ye  set  your  faces  to  the  east 
in  prayer,  as  is  commanded,  ye  true  believers?  I 
rose  to  pray  and  I  tell  ye  that  from  a  fair  birth  sky 
the  sun  came  bloody  and  there  was  a  glare  as  of 
great  fire." 

"An  omen?" 

Mulraz  grunted  and  his  quivering  hand  went  out 
again. 

"When  Akbar's  guardian  sun  leaps  thus  af- 
frighted from  a  healthful,  cloudless  night  should  it 
portend  any  good?" 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      37 

Old  Girbur  pulled  at  his  beard  a  moment  or  two, 
then  he  said  very  slowly :  "A  man  whom  I  did  not 
see  came  in  at  dawn.  He  had  a  message  for  the 
Peerless  One  that  a  certain  woman,  Safa,  begged 
an  audience." 

The  girl  in  the  shadow  caught  the  name  as  a 
quick  child  catches  a  ball. 

"Chunda,  thou  fool,  be  silent!  They  are  speak- 
ing great  matters.  We  will  listen." 

"  'Tis  well  suggested,"  said  Mulraz  acidly. 
"Who  save  a  woman  could  set  the  skies  aflame?" 

"Knowest  thou  of  what  repute  this  woman  is, 
my  father?"  inquired  young  Khuzru  Khan.  Wom- 
en and  well-bred  horses  were  his  two  loves. 

"My  knowledge  of  her  is  sufficient,  and  daily  I 
praise  God — who  alone  is  great — that  he  hath  be- 
stowed on  me  the  wisdom  to  rightly  estimate  all 
such.  She  is  reputed  mysterious  and  comely;  twin 
traps  of  the  devil.  They  draw  fools  as  the  stench 
of  garbage  brings  jackals." 

"Is  she  Parsee,  Islamite,  or  Hindu;  what  doth 
she  worship?" 

"The  Brahmin's  Fire  God,  Agni.  This  coming 
was  written  on  the  dawn  sky." 

"I  have  heard  some  talk  to-day.  Thinkest  thou 
she  works  miracles,  Mulraz?"  said  Girbur. 

"Women  were  created  to  prepare  food,  to  chatter 
and  to  bear  children.  When  a  woman  neglects 


38        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

these  things  and  causes  rumors  and  fears  among 
men  she  hath  worked  a  miracle." 

"And  what  is  it  that  brings  her  here  ?"  questioned 
the  Amir's  son.  No  answer  was  forthcoming  to 
this. 

Young  Khuzru  Khan  had  wheels  of  emeralds 
hanging  from  his  ears.  These  fascinated  Madri 
and  abashed  her.  How  could  she  speak  before  a 
mightiness  that  bore  large  emerald  ear-hoops?  Yet 
she  was  bursting  with  full  information.  And  now 
he  had  put  a  question  they  could  not  answer.  She 
gathered  her  courage,  took  three  steps,  raised  her 
joined  hands  to  her  forehead  and  bowed  before 
them. 

"My  lord  hath  questioned.  If  my  lord  will  par- 
don his  female  servant  I  think  I  guess  the  purpose 
of  her  coming." 

Mulraz  looked  sourly  upon  her. 

"Women  and  cats  appear  where  their  company  is 
least  desired,"  he  said  cuttingly. 

"I  am  no  cat.  I  have  some  knowledge,  but  now 
I  will  not  speak  what  I  know,"  replied  Madri  auda- 
ciously. 

"Oh  yes  thou  wilt;  thou  art  aching  with  desire 
to  talk." 

"Let  the  girl  speak,  Mulraz,"  said  Khuzru  Khan. 
"What  dost  thou  know  ?" 

"Listen,  my  lord.    Here  in  the  prisons  there  is  a 


SAP  A     COMES     TO     DELHI      39 

man,  Kama  Deva,  who  doth  claim  to  be  last  of  the 
Vickrams — so  they  say.  He  is  young,  but  a  great 
prophet  and  most  handsome,  they  did  tell  me  in 
the  harem." 

"Ump !  They  are  wondrous  critics  in  the  harem," 
commented  Mulraz,  muttering  in  his  unsavory 
beard. 

"And  it  hath  been  whispered  that  this  woman, 
Safa,  watches  him  very  closely.  They  say  that 
when  the  Afghans  let  him  pass  it  was  her  work, 
and  yet  he  hath  no  knowledge  of  her  watching.  All 
this  is  the  gossip  of  the  harem." 

"Truly  a  fine  place  for  gossip  is  the  harem!" 

"And  so  it  hath  been  suggested  to  my  mind " 

"By  the  harem?"  inquired  the  acrid  philosopher. 

"That  she  secretly  loves  him,  although " 

Madri's  feminine  mind,  small,  shrewd  and  fertile, 
was  working  quickly,  and  after  all  Sita  had  not 
called  this  woman  young.  "Although  she  hath 
years  enough  to  have  borne  him  as  a  mother !" 

Suddenly,  like  the  roar  of  elephants,  the  thunder 
of  metal  gongs  broke  out,  smiting  their  ears  with 
a  clamor  of  sound.  It  was  the  summons  to  the  Dur- 
bar. Madri  slid  back  into  female  insignificance  and 
the  sugar-filled  shadow  of  the  palace  sweetstuff 
shop,  while  Girbur,  the  Amir's  son,  and  Mulraz 
also  obeyed  the  call  of  the  gongs. 


40        THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 


VI 

Was  it  not  ever  ours  .... 

When  most  the  eager  quest  of  joy  was  rife, 

To  hear  the  deeper  music  borne  along 

With  incommunicable  harmony; 

To  see  above  the  flaring  lamps  of  life 

The  boding  shadow  of  infinity? 

Anonymous. 

In  a  mud-walled  passage  street  five  feet  across, 
where  the  offal  of  food  was  thrown  and  lay  fester- 
ing, where  the  ribs  of  a  week-dead  dog,  pecked 
partially  bare  by  crows,  protruded  through  a  drift 
of  withered  marigolds,  a  leper  had  his  lair. 

The  nameless  hand  of  decay  lay  heavily  upon  all 
that  was  there  and  most  heavily  upon  him,  for  the 
disease  had  been  his  garment  for  three  years.  He 
crouched  weakly  among  the  piled  uncleanness  with 
not  even  a  strip  of  cloth  to  cover  his  dreadful 
nakedness.  A  child  had  thrown  out  some  cooked 
rice  and  with  this  he  fed  himself  ravenously.  His 
face  was  featureless  save  for  the  eyes,  and  these 
were  tranquil,  for  the  soul  of  the  man  had  found 
peace.  His  spirit  was  naked  as  his  unclean  body, 
and  without  undue  impatience  he  waited  the  con- 
summation of  his  sickness  and  the  absorption  of 
himself  within  that  Higher  Will  that  had  imposed 


SAFA     COMES     TO    DELHI      41 

it  upon  him.  Once  he  had  worn  clean,  perfumed 
linen  and  had  gone  abroad  in  a  roofed  and  painted 
ox-cart  lined  with  satin  pillows,  but  the  memory 
was  no  more  to  him  than  the  withered  marigolds 
that  choked  the  passageway. 

Very  far  from  there  the  boom  of  gongs  sounded 
for  a  while  like  the  droning  of  a  bee  in  a  flower. 
The  leper's  dulled  sense  caught  nothing,  but  a  dis- 
reputable parish  dog,  grubbing  in  the  refuse,  lifted 
an  ear  inquiringly. 

The  hall  of  the  Durbar  was  like  a  vast  cavern 
of  snowy-white  marble ;  but  this  fair  aspect  of  cold- 
ness was  overladen,  from  the  bases  of  the  walls  to 
the  arch-divided  roof,  with  little  rosy  flecks  of 
bloom  and  fresh  leaves — an  exquisite  inlay  of  pink 
alabaster  and  leaf-green  jade.  At  the  rear  of  the 
hall  was  a  gold-beaked  peacock,  larger  than  life.  It 
formed  the  back  of  the  golden  chair.  The  feathers 
of  his  spread  tail  were  of  gold  and  the  color  of  the 
feathers,  was  the  color  of  dark  sapphires.  The  eyes 
of  them  were  enormous  oval  emeralds.  The  rare 
skins  of  snow  leopards  carpeted  the  steps  before 
the  Peacock  Throne.  With  infinite  labor  and  peril 
had  those  rich  hides  been  won  in  remote  moun- 
tain ranges  of  awful  and  unbroken  solitude.  Sin- 
gle, creamy,  sensuous-smelling  blooms,  whose  birth- 
soil  was  Ceylon,  had  been  thrown  here  and  there 
upon  the  skins. 


42        THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

There  were  many  men  ranked  about  the  Peacock 
Throne  waiting  the  coming  of  its  occupant.  Kings 
of  Rajputana  and  the  Bengal  provinces,  Mo- 
ghul  Amirs,  Mohammedan  and  Hindu  captains 
of  countless  men  and  elephants  were  assembled 
there. 

The  thud  and  blare  of  music-drums  and  pipes 
broke  out  close  upon  them.  Abul  Fazl,  the  Grand 
Vizier,  and  others  who  held  high  places  had  en- 
tered. Now  came  soldiers,  servants,  the  bearers  of 
the  white  horsehair  fly-flappers  and  a  Tamil  with  a 
large  tiger  cub  following  on  a  chain.  Now  the 
hand-beaten  tom-toms  sounded  like  dry  thunder  in 
the  hills  and  the  cymbals  clashed  as  though  crying 
aloud.  Scented  water  was  sprinkled  upon  the  floor. 
Suddenly,  with  one  movement,  all  the  people  fell 
upon  their  faces.  Only  the  man-made  peacock  held 
erect  its  diamond-crested  head.  Akbar  had  entered. 
There  was  a  short  silence  in  which  the  tiger  cub 
snuffed  loudly  at  the  leopard's  hide  that  was  spread 
beneath  him.  Then  a  deep  male  voice  spoke  sonor- 
ously : 

"The  Lord  hath  given  me  an  Empire  and  a  wise 
heart  and  a  strong  arm.  He  has  guided  me  in 
righteousness  and  justice  and  has  removed  from 
my  thoughts  everything  but  justice.  His  power 
surpasses  man's  understanding.  Great  is  his 
power." 


SAP  A     COMES     TO     DELHI      43 

From  the  pavement  came  a  many-voiced  muffled 
response : 

"Allahu  Akbar." 

Then  the  court  arose  simultaneously  from  the 
kneeling  posture. 

Beneath  the  gemmed  marvel  above  the  throne 
that  was  a  symbol  of  the  sun  sat  a  man  of  forty. 
In  breadth,  in  bone,  in  short,  square  beard  and  in 
the  manner  of  his  bearing  he  was  lion-like.  A 
strong  man  in  brain  and  body;  a  man  of  royal 
pride;  cruel  and  noble  as  a  splendid  beast.  His 
grape-purple  brocade  mantle  was  stiff  with  gold 
and  he  wore  many  rings,  but  no  jewel  in  ear  or 
nostril.  On  one  side  the  half-grown  tiger  cowered, 
on  the  other  Abul  Fazl,  the  Vizier,  stood  discreet. 
Upon  cushions  on  the  steps  before  the  judgment 
seat  sat  Dil-Khusha,  shrouded  in  silk.  To  have  her 
there,  veiled,  was  her  father's  whim,  as  was  the 
presence  of  the  tiger  cub.  She  sat  very  still,  feel- 
ing the  eyes  of  the  man  she  loved  upon  her  and 
yearning  for  him.  It  seemed  a  long,  long  while 
since  he  had  gone  from  her  in  the  summer-house. 
That  had  been  quite  early  in  the  morning  and  now 
it  was  young  afternoon.  When  would  she  feel  his 
lips  on  hers  again? 

Akbar  was  speaking: 

"I  have  received  report  of  a  strange  fanatic  in 
the  prisons.  What  is  his  conduct,  Jemadar?" 


44.        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

A  captain  salaamed  with  joined  hands. 

"Most  merciful,  the  boy  is  mad.  He  hath  been 
seven  days  imprisoned  and  hath  not  begged  for 
mercy." 

"What  does  he  ask?" 

"He  asks  for  justice,  Peerless  One." 

"Bring  in  the  boy.  He  who  seeks  for  justice  in 
this  court  shall  never  be  afflicted  with  delay.  He 
shall  be  heard." 

A  praiseful  murmur  rose.  The  court  purred  in 
its  beard — all  save  Mulraz  and  Adhiraj.  Mulraz 
never  purred,  and  the  young  man  was  preoccupied. 
There  was  an  interval  and  then  a  turn  of  heads, 
for  the  prisoner  was  coming  between  guards.  He 
was  a  slender,  well-grown  boy  and  very  handsome; 
of  the  purest  Rajput  type,  straight  featured 
as  a  Greek.  But  he  bore  himself  as  grimly 
as  a  conquered  king,  tight-lipped,  and  his 
gloomy  eyes,  beautiful  and  large  as  those  of 
a  high-bred,  high-strung  horse,  were  feverish. 
They  halted  him  at  the  steps  of  the  judgment 
seat. 

"Fanaticism  chooses  those  of  the  best  promise, 
like  the  vile  fruit  maggot,"  muttered  the  Lord  of 
Life  and  Death  in  his  crisp  beard  and  Abul  Fazl, 
the  Vizier,  gave  bland  assent. 

"Thou  railest  against  me.  Who  hath  misled 
thee  thus?"  said  the  Great  One  aloud  and  abruptly. 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      45 

He  approved  of  the  fine  fearlessness  of  the  hand- 
some boy. 

"I  am  thy  enemy." 

It  was  a  direct  defiance  spoken  in  a  raised  voice. 

Akbar  smiled. 

"Strange  speech  from  such  a  cub  as  thou.  I 
have  done  thee  no  wrong.  Canst  thou  deny  it?" 

"Even  as  the  lamb  denies  the  vulture  the  right 
to  gloat  within  its  dying  sight!" 

"What  dost  thou  mean  ?" 

The  boy's  voice  rose  again,  quivering. 

"My  father  was  thy  foe.  Thou  wast  his  con- 
queror and,  not  content  with  the  rich  spoil  of  all 
he  had — not  glutted  with  a  hundred  bullock  carts 
of  stuffs  and  coined  silver  and  hammered  gold — 
like  a  mad  elephant  thou  didst  trample  him  and  all 
his  kin  to  death  and  turned  his  city  to  a  shambles!" 

Akbar  laid  his  hands  upon  the  arm-heads  of  his 
soft-cushioned,  golden  chair.  His  question  was  curt 
as  a  blow. 

"Who  art  thou?" 

The  boy  straightened  as  he  stood — young,  slight 
and  dark-clad — between  armored  guards.  He  spoke 
slowly  and  his  voice  rang  with  a  superb  pride. 

"Kama  Deva,  son  of  Vickram,  King  of  the 
World.  The  blood  of  kings  of  endless  generation 
cries  in  these  veins.  Even  thou — thou  dost  usurp 
the  place  that  should  be  mine !" 


46        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

There  was  a  stillness  in  the  white  Durbar  Hall. 
Dil-Khusha  in  a  vivid  flash,  recollecting  the  Zenana 
chatter,  strained  to  see  through  the  blinding  film 
of  silk  that  was  drawn  before  her  face.  She  could 
hear  the  tiger  cub  still  snuffing  at  the  leopard's  pelt. 

The  man  in  the  judgment  seat  was  growing  dan- 
gerous, but  he  spoke  fairly. 

"Go  not  too  far ;  I  owe  thee  naught.  That  which 
I  took  was  won  in  open  battle.  Thy  father's  fight- 
ing men  were  given  into  my  hand  by  the  judgment 
of  God — who  alone  is  great!  The  whirlwind  hath 
no  reckoning  of  each  speck  of  dust  and  Akbar's 
empire,  lasting  through  all  time,  can  take  no  count 
of  the  single  victims  in  its  course." 

From  the  captains  and  the  princes  and  the  lesser 
kings  there  was  a  servile  murmur  of  applause. 
Kama  Deva  flung  out  an  arresting  arm.  He  was 
quivering;  his  brows  drawn  together,  his  eyes  wide 
and  unnatural. 

"Beware  in  thy  pride,  oh  king!  I — I  who  stand 
before  thee  have  looked  upon  the  stars  and  it  is 
written  in  silver,  on  the  wise  brows  of  the  night, 
that  peace  dies  with  Akbar." 

The  quivering  had  gone.  He  seemed  to  stiffen, 
his  outflung  arm  was  rigid  as  steel.  His  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  an  infinite  distance. 

"Kings  shall  war  with  their  sons  and  brother 
against  brother.  They  have  taken  the  ploughing 


SAFA     COMES     TO    DELHI       47 

bullocks  from  the  plough  to  bear  the  spoils  of  their 
wars.  The  armies  have  trodden  down  the  village 
fields  and  the  water  channels  are  tainted  with  blood. 
The  air  is  dark  with  the  flight  of  vultures  to  the 
fresh  battle-ground;  the  milch  goats  are  scattered; 
a  wounded  warhorse  screams  at  the  sky.  Blood 
shall  run  in  Delhi  for  a  hundred  years  and  again  a 
hundred  years.  They  have  taken  the  knife  from 
the  sheath  and  it  shall  be  hungry  until  a  stronger 
hand  cometh  upon  the  hilt.  The  West  shall  come 
to  the  East,  the  unborn  children  shall  hear  the  sound 
of  many  footsteps  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  shall 
the  shadow  of  peace  lie  long  upon  the  land.  .  .  . 
Such  is  thy  fate." 

The  strained  voice  broke  like  the  snapping  of  a 
cord.  The  inner  sight  passed,  as  it  had  come,  in 
bodily  quivering.  Kama  Deva  folded  his  arms  and 
looked  steadily  at  the  ground,  tight-lipped. 

"Very  prettily  prophesied,"  commented  Mulraz. 
"If  I  chose  to  spend  my  nights  in  scramblings  upon 
the  housetops  like  a  torn  cat  I  also  could  shout  warn- 
ings in  the  ears  of  the  deaf — and  beg  my  food  in 
the  bazaar  I" 

No  one  appeared  to  hear  him.  Akbar's  grip  of 
the  golden  elephant  heads  beneath  his  hands  was 
cruel.  Abul  Fazl,  the  Vizier,  bent  to  him  and  spoke 
glibly.  He  resembled  a  tilted  bottle  sleekly  yield- 
ing perfumed  oil. 


48        THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

"Peerless  One,  the  nectar  of  thy  virtues  will  in- 
toxicate a  million  poets  when  thy  grandson's  sons 
are  men.  The  people  look  upon  thy  goodness  and 
graciousness  as  upon  a  god  incarnate,  and  the  wis- 
dom of  thine  ordinances  shall  cause  their  children's 
children  to  bless  thy  name.  God — who  alone  is 
great! — hath  afflicted  this  youth  with  madness,  but 
in  the  hearing  of  fools  such  prophesies  are  danger- 
ous even  as  weapons  in  the  hands  of  babes.  He 
must  be  silenced." 

The  shadow  of  the  Future  passed.  Again  Akbar 
sat  in  judgment  in  the  power  of  his  greatness  and 
a  stripling  boy  stood  before  him  to  be  judged. 

"Yea — he  must  be  silenced.  I  would  be  merci- 
ful, but  this  subtle  poison  may  infect  wholesome 
minds.  Take  the  boy  away  and  let  him  be  slain 
mercifully  with  the  sword  in  the  prisoner's  court. 
Look  to  it,  Jemadar." 

The  captain  salaamed  and  Kama  Deva,  son  of 
Vickram,  was  led  out  to  die.  As  he  went  the  half- 
grown  tiger  lowered  its  head  and  roared — the  judg- 
ment-voice of  the  tribunals  of  the  eternal  forest 
from  whence  man  comes  in  the  beginning. 

Other  suppliants  came  and  went  and  their  causes, 
fluctuated  at  the  steps  of  the  Peacock  Throne  like 
the  petty  wash  of  tides.  Akbar,  looking  out  occa- 
sionally through  the  spaced,  polished  pillars  of  thick 
marble  veined  like  a  girl's  white  hand,  saw  the 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      49 

shimmering  passage  of  tapestry-clad  elephants,  their 
pierced  earflaps  ornamented  with  enormous  gems. 
He  saw  the  gaily  dressed,  well-fed  servant  folk 
squatting  on  their  haunches  awaiting  the  pleasure 
of  their  masters.  Peace  and  the  magnificence  of 
peace  were  there.  There  was  a  monotonous  com- 
ing and  going  of  those  who  fell  upon  their  faces  on 
the  stone  before  him  in  the  familiar  attitude  and 
a  drone  of  titles  that  were  as  the  titles  of  a  god. 
The  unweighed  speech  of  a  fanatic  was  like  the 
cry  of  a  sick  child  who  dreams.  The  everlasting 
marble  that  Akbar  had  planted  would  uphold  this 
roof  above  the  head  of  justice  through  the  long 
vistas  of  well-ordered  years.  .  .  .  And  yet  those 
lost  cities  that  the  forest  had  taken  to  its  secret 
bosom,  the  very  names  of  whose  gods  were  for- 
gotten, had  not  they  too  been  deemed  eternal  in 
the  day  of  their  power? 

The  crippled  leper,  amid  the  putrid  refuse  of  the 
passage-street,  dwelt  in  spirit  upon  the  awe,  beauty 
and  wonder  of  the  Supreme  Soul.  He  knew  the 
unknowableness  of  it,  but  at  times  his  understand- 
ing fluttered  at  the  crystal  threshold  of  some  revela- 
tion. Stupendous  emptinesses  of  amber  light,  soft 
as  floss  silk,  seemed  all  about  him;  ultimate  glory 
crystallized  to  the  semblance  of  infinite;  shining 
floors  translucent  as  a  golden  topaz  appeared  to  his 
fascinated  gaze.  All  that  existed — the  things  with- 


50        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

in  and  the  things  without  the  petty  knowledge  of 
men — appeared  poised  before  the  power  and  discern- 
ment of  the  Supreme  Soul  like  a  reflection-filled 
globe  of  glass  in  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  To  the 
supreme  essence  the  star,  the  sand  grain  and  the 
mind  of  a  man  were  equal.  An  ecstatic  happiness 
flooded  the  leper's  consciousness.  A  feeling  of  rare- 
fied spiritual  joy,  keen  as  light  that  comes  to  one 
who  abides  among  summits  of  blue  ice,  invaded  his 
being.  His  soul  was  as  the  soul  of  an  ascetic  of  the 
Himalaya,  who  has  the  odorous  pine  forests  for 
his  footstool  and  becomes  wholly  desireless  and 
serene. 

And  the  passage-street  stank  and  festered;  a  di- 
seased dog  rooted  in  the  buffalo  dung  and  the  dead 
marigolds,  disturbing  the  week-old  carcass.  In  the 
house  enclosures  the  women  wrangled  and  the  chil- 
dren laughed  in  childish  glee.  Afterwards  they 
cried  themselves  to  sleep,  huddled  uncomfortably  to- 
gether on  a  pitiful  heap  of  rags. 

In  the  Hall  of  the  Durbar,  old  Girbur  coming 
quickly  from  without,  prostrated  himself  before  the 
Peacock  Throne  as  he  delivered  his  message : 

"Peerless  One,  the  woman,  Safa,  who  is  come  on 
a  secret  errand,  awaits  thy  will." 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      51 


VII 

One  could  not  get  by  heart  that  sweetness,  not 
From  noon-foam  of  the  Mediterranean, 

Nor  long  and  leafy  Lebanonian  sigh 
To  lone  Abanah  under  Syrian  stars. 
"Herod"  Stephen  Phillips. 

The  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  moved  easily  upon 
his  golden  seat. 

"Safa,  thou  sayest?  A  name  that  begetteth  mys- 
tery. Was  it  not  said  that  she  hath  some  interest 
in  this  condemned  boy — this  Kama  Deva?"  He 
glanced  at  Abul  Fazl  as  at  an  open  book  of  refer- 
ence. "Go  one  of  you  after  the  Captain,  Jemadar, 

and  if  the  boy  be  yet  alive  tell  him  I  would  stay 
the  sentence  until  a  later  hour." 

A  servant  slipped  from  the  Hall,  running. 

"Thou  hast  seen  this  woman,  Girbur?" 

The  old  man  nodded  a  tremulous  assent  and 
bowed  his  white-turbaned  head  low  before  the  king. 

"Even  as  one  sees  in  groves,  glades,  rivers,  moun- 
tains and  valleys  the  Glory  of  God,"  he  said,  bring- 
ing the  words  out  painfully. 

"She  is  beautiful?" 

"Peerless  One,  she  was  veiled,  but  are  we  not 
aware  of  the  moon  when  at  the  full  of  its  bright- 


52        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

ness  even  though  the  night  be  clouded?  Like  the 
star  which  sometimes  shineth  near  the  full  moon's 
rays  was  the  corner  of  her  eye  as  she  spoke  with 
me." 

"What  said  she?" 

"That  she  was  beautiful." 

"Her  own  voice  told  thee  that?" 

"Peerless  One,  her  words,  as  is  the  manner  of 
women,  told  nothing;  but  her  speech  was  gentle, 
slow  and  sweet  as  the  flowing  of  thick  honey.  The 
Creator  doth  not  bestow  such  a  voice  upon  the  un- 
comely." 

Akbar  smiled. 

"By  Allah!  Thou  didst  well  to  bear  thine  en- 
thusiasm so  swiftly  hence  that  it  hath  had  no  time 
to  stale.  My  guest  should  be  a  most  welcome  pas- 
time from  what  thou  sayest.  Let  her  enter." 

There  was  a  movement  of  interest  among  the 
ranked  princes  and  captains.  Women  who  were  not 
of  the  lower  folk  had  no  dealings  in  the  public  ways 
or  in  the  audience  halls  of  kings.  Sometimes  the 
walls  of  their  world  were  cloaked  on  the  inner  side 
with  garden  jasmine;  sometimes  they  were  the 
closed  doors  of  a  litter;  sometimes  the  drawn  cur- 
tains of  a  bullock  cart,  but  there  were  always  walls. 
There  was  a  spice  of  the  unusual  in  this  matter 
and  a  woman  alone  ever  carries  the  primal  interest 
of  sex  in  a  gathering  of  men. 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      53 

She  was  coming  now,  slowly,  with  Girbur  in 
advance.  Colorless  silk  was  wrapped  carefully  about 
her.  They  could  see  only  that  she  was  tall  and 
moved  with  the  carriage  of  a  beautiful  woman. 
She  came  before  the  lowest  step  of  the  Peacock 
Throne  and  bent  her  head,  then  raised  it  proudly, 
and  stood  awaiting  the  great  king's  pleasure. 

Akbar  looked  curiously  upon  her.  As  she  was 
silent  he  spoke  first  graciously. 

"Welcome  .  .  .  when  Akbar  giveth  welcome 
there  is  no  measured  meaning  in  the  word." 

"I  thank  thee." 

The  voice  was  beautiful  as  Girbur  had  said — slow 
and  sweet  as  the  flowing  of  thick  honey. 

"Thou  dost  not  kneel.  Homage  denied  is  hom- 
age to  be  won.  Is  it  also  customary  with  thee  to 
conceal  thy  face?" 

"There  is  no  law  for  this  concealment,  yet  I  pre- 
fer it." 

"To  clothe  thy  .plainness  ?" 

The  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  spoke  softly  and 
with  cunning,  for  all  his  knowledge  of  women, 
gained  in  twenty-five  sense-sated  years,  was  behind 
the  insolent  question. 

There  was  no  verbal  answer,  but,  with  a  gesture 
of  superb  indignation,  the  woman  threw  back  the 
silver-hemmed  veil  and  faced  him  imperiously. 

She  was  taller  than   was   usual   among   Hindu 


54        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

women,  and  the  fullness  of  the  bosom  and  the  fine 
curve  of  the  hip  were  glorious.  But  the  face,  beau- 
tiful, with  an  almost  Grecian  flawlessness  of  feature, 
was  a  mask  for  sorrow,  and  from  the  darkness  of 
eyes,  that  were  star-like  with  unshed  tears,  there 
looked  out  a  stricken  and  agonized  soul.  The 
mouth,  too,  luscious  as  a  small  ripe  fruit,  was  un- 
utterably sad.  The  white,  classic  drapery,  silver- 
edged,  clung  to  her  shapely  form.  She  had  orna- 
ments of  diamonds  and  rubies  in  her  ears  and  a  sin- 
gle ruby  lay  like  a  drop  of  blood  between  her  brows. 
They  were  rich  jewels;  the  jewels  of  kings  and  of 
queens. 

The  eyes  of  every  man  in  the  Durbar  Hall  were 
upon  her.  The  Tamil  who  held  the  tiger  was  star- 
ing as  though  at  an  incarnation  of  the  goddess 
Lakshmi  who  rose  from  the  sea  of  milk  upon  a 
lotus  lily.  Akbar  stared  also,  unsparingly,  and  Safa 
looked  away  before  the  speech  of  his  eyes.  He 
noted  the  long  line  of  the  hip,  the  promise  of  gen- 
erosity in  the  breast,  the  ripe  mouth,  the  firm  curve 
of  the  cheek  and  the  suddenly-wakened  animal  ad- 
miration was  hot  within  him.  But  there  was  more 
here  than  mere  beauty  of  the  body — something 
strong  and  subtle  as  a  strange  and  poignant  per- 
fume. This  woman  would  not  be  bent  on  the  in- 
stant to  a  man's  desire.  Conscious  of  all  these 
things,  he  spoke. 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      55 

"Thou  art  beautiful  ...  I  never  saw  one  half 
so  beautiful  .  .  .  what  is  thy  wish?" 

Again  her  eyes,  like  indignant  stars,  were  upon 
him. 

"Thou  hast  a  prisoner — Kama  Deva,  son  of  Vick- 
ram." 

As  she  spoke  Mulraz,  little  Dil-Khusha  and  the 
Lord  of  Life  and  Death  each  had  the  same  thought : 
"This  is  just  as  I  expected.  What  does  it  mean?" 
Akbar  gripped  the  sheathed  sword  hilt  and  blade 
that  lay  across  his  knees. 

"I  know  of  such  a  youth.  By  venomous  prophe- 
sies he  hath  sought  to  mock  my  greatness,  and  for 
this  rank  offence  I  have  even  now  condemned  him 
to  death." 

"To  death  ...  to  death!  Oh  it  cannot  be  so! 
No,  no — thou  hast  not — thou  wouldst  not " 

She  was  in  terror  now,  looking  to  him  in  an 
agony  of  appeal.  Akbar  was  judicial. 

"What  interest  hast  thou  in  this  boy?" 

"He  is  my  countryman ;  his  people  are  my  people, 
and  they  love  him." 

"But  how  earnest  thou  to  be  their  ambassador?" 

"Oh  King,  I  came  as  a  peaceful  suppliant  to  beg 
thy  mercy.  It  was  said  that  a  thousand  armed  men 
thundering  at  thy  gates  would  move  thee  less  than 
the  pleading  of  a  woman." 

"By  Allah!  they  were  right  who  so  reckoned!" 


56        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

broke  out  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death.  Certainly 
her  beauty  was  an  intoxication.  He  was  inclined  to 
harbor  fierce  resentment  against  this  hairless-faced 
boy  who  could  command  such  an  advocate.  Safa 
went  on: 

"It  is  said  of  thee  that  thou  art  most  wise  and 
just,  but,  if  this  be  so,  how  couldst  thou  slay  the 
innocent?  He  is  almost  a  child  still  .  .  .  how  he 
hath  offended  thee  I  do  not  know,  but  it  is  now  four 
days  since  word  was  brought  to  the  villages  that 
love  him  and  the  people  of  those  villages  were  very 
angry;  they  talked  of  war  and  of  a  rising  against 
thee,  and  some  brought  out  the  weapons  that  were 
hidden  in  the  thatch  of  the  roofs  and  in  the  byres 
of  the  cattle.  Great  One,  their  fathers  were  the 
children  of  Vickram  in  the  time  when  those  lands 
were  his,  and  they  reverence  the  son  of  Vickram, 
remembering  that  time.  They  are  very  simple 
people;  the  old  men  show  him  the  scars  of  their 
service  to  his  father  and  the  women  prepare  their 
best  for  him.  They  lift  the  children  up  to  see  him 
as  he  passes.  There  is  no  wrong  in  these  things. 
How  shall  they  harm  thee  in  thy  greatness?  .  .  . 
When  I  had  heard  the  word  of  this  talk  of  war 
that  was  brought  I  spoke  to  them.  I  told  them  to 
put  back  their  weapons  and  go  to  their  fields;  that 
Akbar's  justice  would  return  to  them  the  son  of 
their  king ;  that  I  would  go  alone  to  Delhi  and  seek 


SAFA     COMES    TO    DELHI      57 

there  thy  justice  and  thy  mercy.  They -listened  to 
the  things  I  spoke  to  them  and  they  believed  and 
put  away  their  weapons.  That  was  four  days  ago, 
and  on  that  day  I  left  them.  I  came  by  the  shorter 
ways,  by  the  jungle  roads,  and  in  the  darkness  the 
creatures  of  the  jungle  were  behind  us  and  before 
us.  There  were  a  pair  of  eyes,  like  twin  emeralds, 
in  the  head  of  a  devil  and  they  stared — and  stared. 
There  were  howlings  and  laughter  and  whispers 
and  the  crash  of  great  bodies  in  the  bamboos  .  .  . 
We  seemed  to  be  so  slow — so  slow!  But  we  went 
forward  rapidly  and  it  was  my  heart  only  that  stood 
still.  Now  it  is  the  fourth  morning  and  Delhi  has 
been  reached  at  last!  The  gates  are  open!  Am  I 
in  time?  Oh  speak,  Great  King!  Am  I  in  time?" 

She  fell  on  her  knees  with  bare,  jeweled  arms 
outstretched  to  him  as  to  a  god.  Hysteria,  begot- 
ten of  fatigue  and  fear,  had  hold  upon  her  and 
there  was  the  glow  of  some  deeper  agony  behind  it 
like  the  red,  liquid  heart  in  the  gloom  of  a  car- 
buncle. 

As  that  last  cry  of  her  great  pleading  came  to 
him  Akbar  half  rose.  He  was  aware  only  of  her 
eyes  and  of  the  beautiful  outstretched  arms.  Kindly 
words,  impulsive  and  generous,  granting  a  sweep- 
ing pardon  and  mercy  to  the  boy,  were  already  in 
his  mouth  when  there  came  a  sharp,  dry  whisper 
from  Abul  Fazl  at  his  elbow : 


58        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

"Peerless  One,  this  woman  loves  this  youth." 

Abruptly  Akbar  sat  back  again  and  the  words 
of  the  free  pardon  died  in  his  throat.  The  abso- 
lute and  unrestrained  possession  of  as  many  women 
as  desire  may  ask,  begets  savage  jealousy,  unrea- 
soned, grasping,  roused  at  a  touch.  Inflamed  at 
the  suggestion,  he  hated  Kama  Deva  with  a  bitter 
hate.  "Was  that,  indeed,  the  truth?"  he  wondered. 

"If  thou  wilt  say  that  no  other  motive  than  love 
.  .  .  .  "  he  began  smoothly. 

"Love!" 

"Of  thy  countrymen  and  his  hath  brought  thee 
hither  and  thou  art  but  thy  people's  voice  that  plead- 
eth  for  him  I  will  release  him." 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Oh  King,  thou  hast  said  it.  That  is  the  motive 
of  my  coming." 

The  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  raised  his  voice. 

"Bring  in  the  prisoner." 

Safa,  who  had  risen,  seemed  to  set  her  body  in 
a  mold  of  rigidity.  Her  face,  scarcely  darker,  was 
as  bereft  of  all  expression  as  an  ivory  mask.  The 
small,  trembling  diamonds  and  rubies  that  hung  in 
double  loops  from  her  ears  to  the  hollows  of  her 
neck  made  no  glittering,  she  was  so  still.  It  was 
the  rigidity  of  grouped  marble  where  a  strong  man 
checks  the  tense  strength  of  a  leashed  panther — 
the  utmost  strain  of  fierce  control  struck  into  stone. 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      59 

The  woman's  sex-sensitive  feelings  within  her 
shrank  indignant  and  afraid,  before  the  eyes  of  the 
man  upon  the  Peacock  Throne. 

They  brought  the  boy  in,  guarded  as  before. 
When  the  servant  came  with  the  message  of  delay, 
Kama  Deva  had  looked  upon  the  bare  sword  and 
the  straw  was  ready  on  the  ground  to  soak  up  his 
blood.  A  little  later  and  the  message  would  have 
come  too  late.  He  seemed  tighter-lipped  than  ever 
and  barely  noticed  the  unveiled  woman  in  white. 
Women  were  a  matter  of  no  interest  to  Kama  Deva. 
Safa  never  moved  her  eyes.  They  stood  quietly 
within  five  steps  of  each  other. 

Akbar  studied  them  keenly  for  a  moment.  The 
stillness  of  the  woman  proved  nothing,  but  the  in- 
difference of  the  boy  was.  real  enough.  She  was 
strange  to  him.  The  unreasoning  sex-hatred  flick- 
ered out;  as  upon  wings  an  illuminating  idea  came 
to  him  and  he  smiled  a  little  in  his  beard. 

"Exquisite  incarnation  of  the  divine  nectar  of 
beauty,  thou  hast  asked  of  me  my  forgiveness  of 
this  young  man.  Most  eloquently  hast  thou  pleaded 
the  love  of  thy  people  for  him  and  the  innocence 
of  his  youth;  therefore  will  I  be  less  than  merciful 
if  I  deny  my  mercy.  Even  from  the  womb  wast 
thou  destined  a  subduer  of  kings !  Take  that  which 
thou  hast  sought — thy  countryman  is  free." 

Safa's  clutch  upon  the  silk  at  her  breast  loosened 


60        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

on  the  instant  and  her  hand  fell  softly  away.  Kama 
Deva  suddenly  looked  up  to  the  Peacock  Throne, 
dazed  and  stubborn. 

"But  this  bare  freedom  is  the  right  of  all  but 
slaves.  He  shall  be  honored.  He  hath  the  seal  of 
prophesy  upon  him,  therefore  he  shall  be  pro- 
claimed a  prophet.  This  day  I  will  rejoice  in  the 
right  to  give  and  it  is  written  in  the  sacred  law 
that  the  word  of  a  king  shall  be  obeyed  like  a  god's. 
Wherefore  must  my  giving  beget  obedience.  It  is 
my  will  that  this  young  man  shall  enjoy  a  jewel 
above  price,  for  the  possession  of  a  pure  woman  is 
more  than  the  possession  of  rare  pearls.  In  this 
giving  I  bestow  that  which  is  most  dear  unto  my- 
self. Kama  Deva,  son  of  Vickram,  behold  thy  wife 
— the  peerless,  glorious,  superbly  beautiful  Dil- 
Khusha." 

Utter  astonishment  smote  the  Durbar  Hall. 
Kama  Deva,  frowning  as  blackly  as  a  thunder- 
storm, stared  up  at  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death. 
Adhiraj  took  a  quick  forward  step,  clutching  at  the 
long,  heavy  dagger  that  never  left  him  night  or 
day.  But  the  small,  slight,  frail  figure  that  had  sat 
all  the  while  cross-legged  and  swathed  in  ample  silk 
muslin  on  the  big  cushion  two  steps  below  the  judg- 
ment seat,  rose  very  suddenly. 

The  ending  of  Akbar's  most  astounding  gift- 
speech  had  come  to  Dil-Khusha  like  a  blow  from 


SAFA     COMES     TO     DELHI      61 

the  bare  hand  of  a  giant.  She  was  being  given 
now  to  a  young  man  called  Kama  Deva,  who  spoke 
big  words  bitterly  with  an  arrogant  boy's  voice. 
The  kisses  of  the  man  she  loved  were  still  fresh  on 
her  lips.  In  a  moment  the  brave  Rajput  blood  in 
her  was  aflame  and,  like  a  wounded  creature,  she 
sprang  up,  drawn  to  the  fullness  of  her  little  height. 
Her  veil  slipped  from  her  face,  falling  backward 
from  her  smooth,  ebony-black  hair  that  was  coiled 
up  and  clustered  with  bunches  of  jewels.  She  stood 
revealed,  unveiled  and  bare-headed,  before  the  full 
Durbar.  Her  father,  seated  two  steps  above  her, 
appeared  like  a  splendid  and  inexorable  god.  She 
had  never  seen  him  so  before;  nor  the  soldiers  and 
princes,  nor  the  inlaid  walls  save  through  a  blur  of 
silk. 

"Peerless  One — my  father — I  am  no  longer  a 
child!  Thou  dost  think  of  me  as  of  a  child — but 
I  am  not.  Indeed,  I  am  a  woman  now.  Thou  wilt 
not  bestow  me,  like  a  horse  or  a  dog,  where  I  have 
no  will  to  go — thou  wilt  not  do  this?  Oh  thou 
canst  not  know  what  death  it  is  to  me — this  thing 
that  thou  wouldst  do!  My  father,  thou  wilt  not?" 

She  was  terrified  at  the  exposure  of  herself,  at 
what  she  had  said,  at  the  aspect  of  her  father,  at 
the  silence  and  the  vast  numbers  of  listening  men. 
It  had  the  peculiar  bleak  and  naked  horror  of  real- 
ity but  with  all  the  enormity  of  a  dream. 


62        THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

Akbar  had  not  spent  the  shadow  of  a  thought 
upon  Dil-Khusha's  probable  individual  will  in  the 
affair.  The  bestowal  of  a  daughter  from  his  Zenana 
or  of  a  horse  or  an  elephant  from  his  stables  were 
equal  matters  in  his  sight.  He  was  very  angry. 

"Be  silent.  Thou  art  a  child  and  an  exceedingly 
foolish  one;  that  alone  excuses  thee.  Thou  hast 
heard.  When  thy  father  speaks  it  should  be  to  thee 
like  the  voice  of  God  and  disobedience  is  a  blas- 
phemy. Veil  thyself.  Anger  me  no  more." 

But  Dil-Khusha  fell  face  downward  on  the  steps 
before  him,  reaching  toward  his  feet  with  small, 
pitiful  hands. 

"Oh  my  father!  Be  merciful  to  me — be  merci- 
ful!" 

Lying  there  she  was  as  fragile  and  fragrant  and 
piteous  as  the  blossom  of  almonds  beaten  down  by 
hail.  The  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  half  rose.  It 
seemed  that  he  might  kick  the  girl  as  a  man  might 
kick  a  disobedient  dog;  but  strange  things  were 
happening  in  the  Durbar  Hall.  Safa,  coming 
swiftly  up  the  steps,  stooped,  lifted  Dil-Khusha, 
who  sobbed  and  gasped  as  though  under  a  knife- 
stab,  and  pressed  the  girl's  face  against  her  breast. 

"Child,  I  know  thy  wound  is  very  deep.  Be 
comforted.  Take  hope.  I  promise  thee  by  my  own 
soul  that  thou  shalt  not  hope  in  vain." 

Holding  the  girl  close  to  her,  Safa  looked  with 


SAFA     COMES     TO    DELHI      63 

splendid  defiance  upon  the  father  of  the  girl.  Akbar 
had  risen.  The  nearness  of  the  woman  brought  the 
actual  physical  beauty  of  her  almost  within  the 
reach  of  his  hand.  Savage  anger  and  fierce  ad- 
miration flamed  together. 

"Dost  thou  defy  me,  too?  As  God  liveth!  who 
else  would  thwart  my  will?" 

Adhiraj  was  already  in  the  center  of  the  Durbar, 
a  vivid,  virile  figure  of  challenge. 

"I  would." 

"Thou!" 

"Peerless  One,  I,  Adhiraj,  son  of  Umra  Singh, 
son  of  Ram  Rai,  ask  of  thee  thy  daughter  Dil-Khu- 
sha  that  I  may  make  her  my  wife." 

The  lion  had  come  to  the  limit  of  his  patience; 
it  was  the  last  goad.  He  pointed  straight  at  the 
young  man. 

"Seize  him!"  he  said  sternly.  And  they  heard 
the  order  in  the  court-area  without. 

"For  this  affronting  of  my  will  I  forbid  thee 
Delhi,  for  the  space  of  one  year.  Disobedience  will 
be  visited  with  death,  so  look  to  it  that  thou  be 
not  found  within  the  walls  until  thy  punishment  is 
accomplished.  Take  him  to  the  city  gate." 

Little  Dil-Khusha  had  lifted  her  face  from  Safa's 
breast,  staring  at  Adhiraj  with  great,  tragic,  child- 
ish eyes,  while  he  looked  up  to  her  from  below.  As 
the  armed  men  closed  round  him  she  fell  suddenly, 


64        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

almost  across  Akbar's  feet.  It  seemed  again  that 
he  would  spurn  the  pretty  anguished  child,  but  Safa 
flung  out  a  protesting  hand  to  stay  him.  Instantly 
the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  had  his  strong  grip 
upon  her  fingers.  The  whole  nature  of  the  man 
was  in  that  powerful  hand  that  gripped  her  own, 
with  virile  clasp.  And  his  hand  was  hot.  For  a 
long  instant  she  endured  his  hold  upon  her,  feeling 
the  message  of  it  vibrate  from  his  pulses  to  hers, 
meeting  steadily  the  speech  of  his  eyes.  Then  she 
drew  away  from  him  and  veiled  herself  closely  and 
carefully  and  went  down  the  steps,  past  the  boy, 
Kama  Deva,  down  the  length  of  the  hall  of  audi- 
ence and  out  between  the  monstrous  marble  pillars. 
When  Dil-Khusha  had  been  carried  within  the 
Zenana  to  the  ministrations  and  motherly  bosom  of 
Draupadi,  the  servants  assigned  to  him  brought 
Kama  Deva  to  the  lodging  destined  for  his  use. 
After  Abul  Fazl  had  poured  much  oil  upon  the 
troubled  waters  of  the  interrupted  Durbar,  Akbar 
sent  abroad  servants  on  whom  he  could  rely.  But 
they  returned  having  accomplished  nothing,  for  the 
black  palanquin  and  the  imperious  Safa  had  gone 
out  from  Delhi. 


PART  II 
KAMA  DEVA 


THE  noiseless  Hindu  servant,  deft  and  dis- 
creet, finally  disappeared  and  Kama  Deva 
was  left  alone.  He  stared  with  indigna- 
tion and  bitter  contempt  at  the  ceremonial  dress  and 
the  headgear,  plumed  with  a  stiff  silver  tuft,  that 
were  laid  out  on  the  mattress-like  divan.  The  serv- 
ant had  proposed  to  habit  him  in  these  gift-gar- 
ments, but  he  had  sternly  told  the  man  to  go.  Could 
he  wear  such  gorgeous  furnishings  ?  They  were  the 
trappings  of  the  Usurper's  panderers,  and  stank  of 
slavishness  and  of  flattery.  Faugh!  A  shudder  of 
repulsion  swept  over  him. 

The  power  of  the  great  palace  was  like  the  weight 
of  a  mountain  smothering  the  life  of  his  soul.  He 
was  in  the  house  of  his  father's  murderer.  A  band 
of  inlaid  arabesque  decoration,  in  red,  white  and 
black  marble,  edged  with  flecks  of  gilt,  was  carried 
around  the  four  naked  walls.  Red,  for  the  blood 
that  ran  in  the  royal  city  of  Vickram  when  the  last 

65 


66       THE    SUTTEE    OF    SAFA 

defenders  put  on  the  saffron  garments  of  despair 
and  fought  to  the  death ;  white,  for  the  death-clothes 
of  the  Rajput  women  who  lighted  funeral  pyres 
and  lay  down  in  the  flames;  black  for  the  smoke 
of  their  burning.  The  gilding  was  for  the  precious 
spoil  that  was  dug  by  the  invaders  from  beneath 
the  floors;  torn  from  the  ears  of  elephants;  from 
the  wrists  of  dead  women,  and  from  the  foreheads 
of  gods.  In  the  last  hour  the  people  of  his  father 
had  performed  the  rite  of  Johur,  finding  glorious 
death  under  the  very  snouts  of  the  Mohammedan 
swine,  while  he,  the  son  of  the  Vickram,  had  life, 
dishonored  by  the  insulting  favor  of  the  Despoiler. 
But  he  realized  he  must  live  to  fulfil  his  destiny. 
He  had  been  born  into  the  world  for  a  purpose. 
He  was  like  a  blade  engraved  with  the  lettering  of 
one  word,  "Revenge."  And  the  blade  must  strike 
and  be  driven  home  to  the  hilt.  Only  then  might 
it  be  snapped  in  pieces. 

Outside  the  criss-crossing  of  the  ornate  sandal- 
wood  lattice  a  cobra,  hatched  in  one  of  the  palace 
gardens,  drank  from  a  dish  of  milk  set  out  by  one 
who  held  the  Snake-God  in  reverence  .  .  .  and  he, 
Kama  Deva,  must  take  his  food  from  the  hand  of 
the  Mohammedan — for  a  little  while.  Then  a  sud- 
den knife  plunged  in  the  broad  back  or  the  broad 
breast ;  a  supreme  moment  of  attainment — and  death 
under  a  hundred  spears!  A  dagger  lay  with  the 


KAMA     DEVA  67 

dress  of  ceremony  on  the  mattress.  Kama  Deva 
caught  it  up. 

"Vickram — my  father!  By  thy  blood  that  lives 
within  me  I  swear  that  I  will  look  neither  to  the 
right  nor  to  the  left  until  this  death  be  accom- 
plished! Vishnu,  hear  my  vow!" 

He  had  taken  nothing  that  day  save  a  little  water, 
and  his  head  ached  intolerably.  He  paced  back  and 
forth  in  the  abrupt,  baffled  fashion  of  a  lithe,  im- 
prisoned animal.  The  quiet  of  the  guest-place 
where  he  was ;  the  consciousness  of  the  demure  and 
silent  presence  of  servants  within  call;  the  apparel 
laid  out  under  his  eyes  and  the  limited  space,  clean, 
cool  and  orderly,  exasperated  him  increasingly.  A 
throbbing  feverishness  possessed  him.  His  mind, 
that  was  ordinarily  lucid  as  glass,  became  delirious. 
He  clapped  his  hands  suddenly,  and  in  a  moment 
the  servant  was  with  him. 

"I  desire  to  ride.     Get  me  a  horse  of  spirit." 

He  spoke  like  a  Maharajah  of  all  India.  The 
man  salaamed  almost  to  the  floor.  From  the  horse 
stables  they  led  out  a  chestnut  mare,  who  fidgeted 
like  an  overwrought  dancing-girl  though  two  men 
held  her  by  the  head.  Kama  Dava  sprang  straight 
into  the  saddle  without  use  of  stirrup,  throwing 
himself  forward  upon  her  neck.  The  frantic  mare 
flung  up  her  small,  savage  head,  tossing  the  men 
at  her  bridle  right  and  left.  With  a  sudden  crazed 


68        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

leap  she  was  away  like  a  streak  of  flame.  The 
grooms  who  had  held  her  picked  themselves  up 
murmuring. 

"Surely  it  was  the  son  of  a  king,"  said  a  sweeper 
from  the  camel  stables  admiringly.  "Are  ye  much 
hurt,  my  brothers?" 

"Naught  broken,  but  somewhat  bruised,  and  not 
a  little  fouled,  as  thou  seest,"  said  the  right-hand 
groom.  "Verily  a  young  Rajah,  despite  his  gar- 
ments! He  looked  not  once  backward  to  discover 
whether  our  heads  were  broken  by  the  hoofs." 

The  chestnut  mare  was  bolting  frenziedly  across 
the  waste  land  that  lay  from  the  outermost  limit  of 
the  palace  enclosures  to  the  river.  Kama  Deva, 
lying  low  on  her  neck,  with  his  face  in  her  flying 
mane,  grew  light-headed  with  the  delirium  of  this 
crazy  speed.  The  ground  was  broken  with  sudden 
hollows  and  death  raced  beside  them  with  a  hand 
on  the  loose-swinging  tasseled  bridle.  Presently 
the  boy  straightened,  found  the  shovel-shaped  stir- 
rups, and  took  command  of  the  mare.  A  poor 
man's  milch  buffalo  blundered  before  them.  With 
the  inbred  instinct  of  the  true  rulers  of  men,  he 
thoughtfully  headed  the  mare  aside  until  the  outer 
shallows  were  torn  into  scattering  splashes  by  the 
hoof-cuts. 

The  light  of  the  late  afternoon  slanted  pleasantly. 
The  waste  land  was  gone;  the  ploughed  lands  hur- 


KAMA     DEVA 69 

ried  by  them  on  the  left  as  they  followed  the  mar- 
gin of  the  river.  A  village  was  passed.  Then  a 
second  village  whirled  by.  A  fringe  of  jungle 
swept  down  to  the  bed  of  the  Jumma.  A  wave  of 
rank  jungle  grass  rose  girth-deep  and  Kama  Deva 
reined  in  the  wheezing  mare,  now  darkly  striped 
with  sweat. 

It  was  the  time  of  sunset.  There  was  a  flutter- 
ing stir  of  little  bats  and  the  sky  in  the  west  became 
the  color  of  a  ruddy  apple.  From  the  right  the 
wide  whisper  of  the  great  sand-bedded  river  came 
to  him ;  on  the  left,  beyond  the  dense  thickets,  were 
the  foot-deep  wheel-tracks  of  a  road.  Kama  Deva 
slipped  from  the  saddle.  He  had  ridden  off  the 
mind  fever  and  now  felt  a  wholesome  hunger.  The 
mare,  standing  girth-high  in  a  field  of  grass,  looked 
at  him  with  large  deer-like  eyes.  She  was  sub- 
dued, inquiring.  The  loneliness  was  complete. 
Such  places  were  the  likely  haunt  of  thugs,  the 
professional  thieves  and  stranglers  of  the  highways. 
Often  a  seemingly  deserted  girl  weeping  in  the  soli- 
tude was  the  decoy.  A  crouching  woman  in  white 
drapery  seemed  to  loom  up  there  in  the  dimness 
by  the  side  of  the  road.  But  it  was  only  a  large, 
colorless  stone.  Kama  Deva  put  his  hand  on  the 
mare's  neck.  For  the  first  time  he  saw  that,  at- 
tached to  the  saddle,  were  a  bow  and  a  quiver  of 
arrows. 


II 

I  am  become  a  danger  and  a  menace, 
A  wandering  fire,  a  disappointed  force. 
...  It  is  such  souls  as  mine  that  go  to  swell 
The  childless,  cavern  cry  of  the  barren  sea, 
Or  make  that  human  ending  to  night-wind. 

"Paolo  and  Francesco" — Stephen  Phillips. 

The  black  palanquin  was  cushioned  upon  the  in- 
side with  dark  velvet.  The  sliding  panels  were 
drawn  a  little  open,  and  the  frosty  silver  fringes  of 
the  tiny  looped-up  curtains  shivered  continually  be- 
cause of  the  jerky  speed  of  the  bearers.  Safa,  lying 
in  the  narrow  darkness,  looked  out  and  saw  the  twi- 
light jungle  slipping  past. 

She  was  conscious  of  a  terrible  weariness  of  body 
and  of  mind.  When  Delhi  lay  before  her,  un- 
reached,  agonizingly  desired,  every  swaying  mile 
lessened  the  gap  betwixt  her  and  the  beloved  of 
her  heart.  But  now  he  was  left  behind  in  the  city 
of  the  Mohammedan.  Her  face  was  set  from  Delhi, 
but  her  heart  and  the  very  core  of  her  soul  remained 
in  the  palace  of  Akbar.  That  morning  had  brought 
her  to  the  threshold  of  fear  and  hope.  It  was 
scarcely  night  yet.  How  much — how  very  much 
had  happened  within  an  hour !  Appeal,  smooth  pre- 
varication; pardon,  bewilderingly  brutal  generosity; 


KAMA     DEVA  71 

the  fainting  of  a  girl  were  indelibly  imprinted  on 
her  consciousness.  Him  she  had  not  touched,  not 
even  in  passing;  had  not  heard  him  speak  except 
formally;  she  had  not  even  looked  fully  upon  him 
.  .  .  but  she  had  accomplished  that  for  which  she 
had  come.  And  now  her  soul,  like  a  handful  of 
ashes,  was  bereft  of  all  life  and  animation. 

On  either  side  the  darkening  jungle  slid  past  like 
the  flowing  of  water.  There  was  an  ever-present 
choking  flurry  of  dust.  The  silver  fringes  shivered 
and  the  light  thud-thud  of  naked  feet  fell  with  mo- 
notonous regularity. 

A  horrible,  indescribable  sound  that  was  neither 
a  cough  nor  a  moan,  but  partook  of  both,  broke 
out  unexpectedly,  coming  from  no  particular  direc- 
tion, but  seeming  to  eddy  round  them  circle-wise. 
It  ceased  as  suddenly  as  it  came.  The  swaying1 
palanquin  halted  abruptly,  almost  with  a  jerk. 
There  was  a  twittering  whisper  like  the  soft  cluck- 
ings  of  frightened  chickens;  a  man  came  close  to 
the  paneling;  it  was  the  old  body-servant,  Sikandra 
Khan.  He  spoke  huskily: 

"My  mistress,  it  is  a  tiger  .  .  .  and  these  spawn 
of  jackals  will  not  go  forward." 

Safa  heard  him  without  emotion. 

"Open  the  panels,"  she  said  quietly.  "I  will  de- 
scend." 

"But — the  tiger,  Gracious  One?" 


72       THE    SUTTEE    OF    SAFA 

"I  have  said  it,  Sikandra.     I  will  descend." 

When  she  had  alighted  they  put  down  the  palan- 
quin in  the  road.  On  the  right  the  large  voice  of 
a  river  purred  softly  from  its  bed  of  sand.  The 
road — two  deep,  parallel  trenches  cut  by  wheels — 
came  curving  narrowly  between  jungle  walls. 

Suddenly  an  auburn-coated  horse,  bearing  full 
housings,  broke  out  upon  the  track  and  fled  up  it, 
mad  with  fear.  The  palanquin  bearers,  scattering, 
cried  out  sharply;  but  they  were  uncertain  which 
way  to  go,  for  the  message  of  the  tiger,  coming 
from  everywhere  and  yet  from  nowhere,  held  them 
as  in  a  panic. 

In  her  journeying  to  Delhi  Safa  had  been  in  con- 
stant terror  of  the  jungle.  Her  death  would  then 
have  meant  the  death  of  two.  The  cracking  of  a 
stick ;  the  rattle  of  dead  stalks  and  leaves ;  the  weep- 
ing voices  of  little  monkeys  at  dusk,  had  played 
upon  the  tension  of  her  fear  as  upon  the  single  taut 
string  of  an  instrument.  Now  she  was  almost  in- 
different; feeling  merely  curious  as  to  whether  the 
tiger  would  appear.  The  night  was  almost  upon 
them.  Again  came  the  horrible  half  moan,  half 
cough.  Old  Sikandra  Khan  was  fumbling  for  the 
weapon  at  his  girdle.  One  of  the  bearers  started 
to  run  up  the  road,  but  checked  himself  and  doubled 
back  to  his  fellows. 

Something  bounded  suddenly  into  the  man-path. 


KAMA     DEVA 7S 

It  was  a  tiger  that  measured  all  of  ten  splendid  feet 
from  muzzle  to  tail-tip.  It  crouched  on  its  belly 
between  the  wheel-cuts,  staring  at  them  level-eyed, 
its  fringed  chin  in  the  dust.  Safa  heard  behind 
her  the  terrified  yelp  of  men;  then  a  noise  of  bare 
feet  running.  Ahead  there  sounded  a  savage  spat- 
out  snarl.  The  tiger,  turned  suddenly  aside  from 
them,  seemed  struggling  to  draw  itself  across  the 
road.  The  dust  rose  like  thin  smoke. 

"By  the  beard  of  my  father,  it  hath  received  an 
arrow  in  the  flank!  The  devil  is  paralyzed  in  its 
hinder  part!" 

Sikandra  Khan,  with  a  wide-bladed,  antique  tiger- 
knife  in  his  hand,  started  at  a  quick  shuffle  down 
the  track.  The  snarling  tiger  had  dragged  itself 
behind  a  patch  of  jungle  growth.  Safa  watched 
Sikandra  maneuvering  about  this  patch  for  a  mo- 
ment or  two.  The  snarling  had  ceased.  She  saw 
him  stoop  as  in  a  sudden  salaam  and  a  few  seconds 
later  he  was  returning  to  her  with  the  tiger-knife 
re-sheathed. 

She  had  not  been  at  all  afraid.  The  happening 
had  seemed  as  detached  from  her  as  might  a  bel- 
lowing tussle  of  matched  buffaloes  viewed  from  an 
alabaster  window  lattice  twenty  feet  above.  But 
now  she  shivered  with  apprehension  and  dread.  Si- 
kandra, shuffling  in  curly-toed,  hide  shoes,  appeared 
fraught  with  some  unuttered  significance,  messen- 


74        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

ger-like,  as  the  mysteriousness  of  the  dusk  rendered 
him  up  to  her  again.  She  could  neither  still  her 
trembling  nor  understand  it.  The  old  body-servant 
was  almost  overcome  with  excitement. 

"Gracious  One,  the  tiger  is  dead.  He  lieth  by 
the  shriphala  berry  bush.  I  have  spoken  with  his 
slayer — a  beardless  boy,  Gracious  One.  The  first 
arrow  smote  the  beast  with  paralysis  of  its  hinder 
parts;  the  second  it  received  in  the  gullet.  Verily 
by  favor  of  the  gods,  a  child  hath  turned  death 
aside  from  us!" 

"Yea — it  was  indeed  most  bravely  done.  Go  to 
him  quickly,  Sikandra.  Say  that  one  who  saw  the 
deed  would  speak  with  him." 

She  understood  now.  It  could  be  none  else.  Her 
flesh  and  blood  had  cried  it  with  dumb  voices,  shak- 
ing her  from  head  to  foot  as  her  body  had  been 
shaken  and  her  soul  all  but  riven  from  her  by  utter 
pain  in  the  time  of  that  other  first  coming  sixteen 
years  before.  That  coming  had  brought  love  and 
sorrow;  a  guilty  and  timorous  joy.  These  three 
had  stood  beside  her  through  all  the  seasons  since; 
the  sorrow  and  the  love  were  steadfast,  but  the  joy 
seemed  always  eluding  her. 

Sikandra  Khan  was  coming  again  toward  her 
from  the  patch  of  shriphala-bushes  with  a  tall,  well- 
set  boy  in  dark  blue  raiment.  Safa  steadied  her- 
self with  one  hand  against  the  palanquin.  Kama 


KAMA     DEVA 75 

Deva  was  elate  and  excited.  It  was  his  first  tiger. 
He  was  not  at  all  unwilling  to  speak  with  the 
woman  he  had  rescued.  He  saw  a  beautifully 
shaped  white-enshrouded  figure  standing  by  a  palan- 
quin, her  face  bared  to  him.  It  was  strange;  was 
she  journeying  alone?  In  the  next  instant  he  recog- 
nized her. 

"Peace  be  with  thee,  oh  wondrous  Light  of 
Heaven!" 

The  salaam  was  reverent.  Pain  and  joy  stabbed 
her  so  sharply  that  Safa  almost  sobbed. 

"Peace  be  with  thee.  .  .  .  Thou  art  brave  beyond 
thine  age." 

The  mystery  of  all  that  had  been  done,  and  also 
of  much  that  he  had  heard  and  partially  forgotten, 
pressed  suddenly  upon  Kama  Deva.  This  woman 
had  given  him  back  his  life.  He  looked  at  her  rev- 
erently but  inquiringly. 

"I  believe  now  that  it  was  Vishnu  himself  who 
led  hither  that  tiger,  for  to-day  thou  hast  put  me 
so  deeply  in  thy  debt  that  I  was  much  oppressed  by 
it.  Tell  me  why  thou  didst  plead  for  me,  Most 
Gracious  One?  Some  things  I  have  heard  concern- 
ing thee,  but  surely  I  was  as  strange  to  thee  as  thou 
wast  to  me  .  .  .  ?  Be  that  as  it  may,  thou  hast  all 
my  gratitude.  I  have  naught  else — save  a  tiger's 
Tilde." 

"Thou  hast  heard  of  me  before?" 


76        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

"As  one  hears  of  miracles.  Once  fifty  Afghans, 
lying  in  ambush  for  those  who  rode  with  me,  melted 
like  a  mist;  men  and  horses  foolish  with  panic. 
They  say  it  was  thy  work.  They  say  thou  hast  the 
powers  of  a  yogi  .  .  .  why  hast  thou  befriended 
me,  a  stranger,  Light  of  Heaven  ?" 

"It  is  simply  told.  I  came  from  the  villages  that 
love  thee  and  I  spoke  with  their  mouth.  If  there  be 
thanks  due  for  so  small  a  thing,  for  this  only  I 
will  take  thy  thanks." 

"So  be  it.  In  myself  I  am  nothing,  but  it  is  the 
voice  of  Vickram  that  speaketh  to  thee  through 
my  gratitude." 

The  boundless,  unconscious  pride  of  this  humility 
was  splendid.  Then  the  other  aspect  of  the  affair 
rose  abruptly  and  degradingly  upon  his  remem- 
brance. 

"Though  it  were  better  had  I  died  under 
the  sword  than  live  to  be  made  a  jest  of  before 
his  assembled  officials  purring  in  their 
combed  beards!  Would  to  God  the  Mohammedan 
had  offered  me  his  torturer  rather  than  his 
daughter !" 

The  woman  standing  with  him  in  the  road  looked 
with  pitiful  and  hungry  eyes  upon  the  pure,  Grecian 
features,  the  cleft  chin,  the  narrow,  jet-black,  joined 
brows,  sensitive  and  arrogant.  His  straight-set 
body  was  slim  as  a  panther. 


KAMA     DEVA 77 

"Hast  thou  no  desire  for  this  girl  ?  She  is  beau- 
tiful." 

"I  would  not  touch  her  even  with  a  finger,  though 
she  were  Lakshmi  incarnate.  The  Great  Ones  have 
wedded  my  life  to  a  higher  thing  than  love." 

So  no  other  woman  had  known  those  firm-cut 
lips,  or  laid  cool  hands  above  those  proud,  chaste 
brows.  The  pitifully  hungry  eyes  dwelt  lingeringly 
upon  him. 

"Can  aught  be  higher  than  Love?"  she  asked 
searchingly. 

"Yes.  Honor.  All  that  is  Akbar's  I  have  just 
cause  to  hate." 

Kama  Deva  was  silent  a  moment.  The  sympathy 
of  this  new  listener  tempted  him.  She  was  not  as 
other  women.  It  was  good  to  speak  of  the  bitter 
and  sacred  things  that  were  the  very  life  of  him 
to  one  who  listened  so  sympathetically.  And  the  sub- 
tle influence  of  the  interest  of  a  mature  woman 
upon  immature  manhood  beguiled  him  without  his 
consciousness  of  the  beguilement. 

"If  thou  wilt  hear  it,  Gracious  One,  I  will  set 
this  cause  before  thee.  It  is  not  a  new  tale,  but 
such  stories  are  soon  forgotten — save  by  the  aven- 
gers." 

Safa  moved  slightly  aside  to  the  prone  trunk  of 
a  tree  and  the  boy  moved  with  her.  She  sat  down, 
but  the  boy  remained  standing.  A  sullenly-golden 


78        THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

moon  was  crawling  upward  from  the  black  jungle. 
A  titanic,  red-gold,  handleless  drinking  bowl,  beaten 
out  at  the  fashioning  of  the  world,  brimming  with 
nectar-dew — the  precious  amrita  that  the  gods 
drink  in  mid-heaven.  The  palanquin  bearers  had 
returned,  one  of  them  leading  the  escaped  mare. 
Sikandra  Khan,  low-voiced,  began  to  describe  the 
combat  to  a  squatting  circle.  He  had  already  cut 
off  the  tiger's  ears  to  serve  as  a  future  charm. 
Safa  looked  up  at  the  young  man  standing  by  her. 

"Tell  me,"  she  commanded  urgently. 

It  was  too  dark  for  him  to  see  more  than  the 
outlines  of  her  features. 

"Listen,  Gracious  One.  Not  a  score  of  years 
ago,  northward  from  this  place,  a  maharajah  ruled 
the  lands  of  his  fathers  and  of  his  father's  fathers, 
for  he  was  come  of  a  line  of  kings  old  as  the  world 
...  I  am  his  son.  Look  thou  here." 

He  threw  open  the  neck  of  his  tunic,  stooping  a 
little  toward  her.  On  the  bared  breast  was  a  tattoo- 
mark,  seemingly  rosette-shaped,  indistinguishable  in 
the  darkness.  But  Safa  knew  it — knew  it  as  though 
it  had  been  stamped  upon  her  soul — the  mark  of  the 
tiger's  paw. 

"Canst  thou  see?  This  sign  is  the  seal  of  the 
Vickrams — my  heritage.  Akbar  took  all,  down  to 
the  last  anna  under  the  mud  floors.  I  am  as  desti- 
tute of  any  of  the  goods  of  my  father  as  the  most 


KAMA     DEVA  79 

beggarly  sunnyasi  at  his  gate,  but  this  still  remains. 
There  remains  also  the  knowledge  of  all  that 
was  mine  by  birthright  and  my  purpose  of  re- 
venge !" 

He  was  pitiably  boyish,  terribly  determined,  ut- 
terly void  of  the  ability  to  dissemble  and  to  lie,  in 
which  alone  would  have  lain  his  frail  hope  of  life. 
The  seal  of  the  Vickrams  was  set  like  a  sharply  de- 
fined, blue-black  birth  blemish  upon  his  breast,  but 
Death,  in  this  land  of  listening  ears,  had  set  his  own 
sure  seal  upon  him. 

Safa  heard  and  understood.  Her  heart  ached. 
Helplessness  pressed  upon  her  like  a  suffocation. 
She  pleaded  with  the  boy  to  guard  himself  against 
danger. 

"Yes,  but  thou  art  young,  and  youth  is  over-rash 
in  judgment.  Akbar  is  just  and  doubtless  will  make 
much  reparation.  Do  not  turn  from  that  which  he 
may  offer  thee ;  it  is  thy  right.  But  do  no  violence 
to  him  or  to  thyself.  Hast  thou  had  naught  of 
gentleness  in  thy  life  ...  no  memory  of  thy 
mother?" 

With  the  aching  eyes  of  her  soul  rather  than  with 
the  eyes  of  her  body  she  saw  his  lips  twitch  and 
tighten. 

"My  mother !  Thou  hast  touched  a  curse.  Speak 
not  of  her."  His  voice  was  bitter  as  the  taste  of 
brine.  A  few  moments  of  silence  elapsed. 


80        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

"Dost  them  remember  her?"  she  inquired  yearn- 
ingly. 

Kama  Deva  hesitated.  Her  low,  expectant,  trem- 
ulous voice  flattered  his  need  of  sympathy.  In- 
stinctively he  felt  no  shadowing  fear  of  a  betrayal. 

"Gracious  One,  I  owe  thee  more  than  can  be  re- 
paid. Thou  dost  wish  it ;  therefore  thou  shalt  know 
even  this  shame.  .  .  .  Vickram  in  dying  left  two 
queens  who  had  known  his  love  and  the  intimacy 
of  his  favor.  One,  as  became  a  chaste  and  honor- 
able wife,  faithful  to  her  husband  and  to  the  holy 
command,  followed  his  body  to  the  place  of  burn- 
ing, and  met  her  suttee  on  the  pyre  of  spices  and 
sandalwood.  The  other  vanished,  leaving  the  re- 
proach of  her  shamefulness  upon  an  honored  name. 
None  knew  whither  she  went  or  how.  There  was 
not  one  of  Vickram's  followers,  or  of  those  who 
served  him,  who  would  not  have  met  death  at  his 
slightest  bidding  as  joyfully  as  a  dog  leaps  at  the 
word  of  his  master!  And  she,  to  whom  it  was 
given  by  love  and  duty  and  all  that  is  most  high 
and  sacred  in  the  ancient  faith  to  die  beside  him, 
fled  .  .  .  she  was  my  mother." 

The  low,  unaltering  voice  questioned  again: 

"Thou  art  ashamed  of  her?" 

The  answer  was  incisive  as  the  cut  of  a  knife. 

"As  I  am  proud  to  be  a  Vickram — yes." 

"Wouldst  not  forgive  her  now?" 


KAMA     DEVA 


Kama  Deva  flung  out  his  hand  with  a  curt,  final 
gesture,  cruel  with  all  the  blind,  raw-edged  cruelty 
of  the  young. 

"Never.  Not  though  I  owed  my  life  to  her  a 
score  of  times  !  This  mark  was  placed  upon  me  by 
Vickram's  blessed  hand.  By  it  I  have  sworn  that  I, 
his  son,  will  avenge  him  upon  his  enemies.  Could 
my  father  have  a  greater  enemy  than  this  woman, 
who  cast  such  insult  on  his  name?" 

There  was  a  longer  pause. 

"Hast  thou  no  tidings  of  her  ?" 

"None.  But  with  all  my  soul  I  pray  that  she  may 
be  dead." 

"And  if  it  be  that  she  is  not  dead  and  thou 
shouldst  meet  with  her,  what  wouldst  thou  do?" 

The  voice  in  the  darkness  was  most  pitiful,  pitiful 
and  eager;  tremulous  as  falling  tears.  But  Kama 
Deva  heard  only  the  question,  and  gave  his  answer 
to  it  savagely. 

"Curse  her.  Deny  her  the  right  to  call  me  son, 
which,  if  she  be  a  mother  in  more  than  the  mere 
name,  should  be  sufficient  punishment.  But  if  not 
stricken  down  with  the  utmost  penitence  and  beg- 
ging mercy  of  me  on  her  knees,  I  would  kill  her. 
Though  before  I  struck  she  should  see  what  thou 
hast  seen  and  hear  my  vow.  Then  she  should 
die.  .  .  . 

"It  is  late,  and  I  have  wearied  thee  with  this  talk 


long  enough,  Light  of  Heaven.  The  tiger  is  dead, 
and  I  do  not  think  there  will  be  others.  With  thy 
permission  I  will  leave  thee.  Peace  be  with  thee, 
Gracious  One,  who  dost  carry  peace !" 

The  moon  had  crawled  higher,  lessening,  paling 
to  honey-color,  diffusing  a  faint  dew  of  light  that 
trickled  through  and  between  the  jungle  blacknesses 
like  moisture  through  a  choked  sieve.  Safa  saw  the 
boy  bend  low,  salaaming  to  her.  Then — it  seemed 
only  a  moment  later — he  was  mounted,  indistinct 
upon  a  blurred  outline  of  horse,  with  old  Sikandra 
at  his  stirrup.  There  was  a  sudden  jerk ;  a  spring- 
ing forward  into  suddenly-urged  speed;  then  the 
thump-thump  of  swift-falling  hoofs  going,  going 
from  them  down  the  soft  forest  track,  farther  and 
fainter.  ...  A  jackal  yapped  querulously.  Then  a 
brooding  quietness  supervened. 

Sikandra  Khan  would  neither  question  for  him- 
self nor  permit  the  bearers  to  bestir  themselves  until 
such  time  as  his  Gracious  One  should  call  to  him. 
Not  even  for  the  Dread  Mother  Kali,  black,  hor- 
rible, girdled  with  bloody  heads,  would  he  have 
broken  this  long-learned  usage.  As  the  night  deep- 
ened, squatting  in  the  center  of  a  dimly  seen  and 
most  apprehensive  circle,  he  talked  in  a  soothing 
monotone. 

For  a  space  Safa  sat  as  he  had  left  her,  listening 
and  watching  a  still  whiteness  that  might  at  a  little 


KAMA     DEVA 


distance  have  been  the  whiteness  of  a  dead  tree- 
stump.  Then  the  hoof-thumps  passed  beyond  the 
outermost  limit  of  her  hearing.  The  lonely  jackal 
yelped  once  and  was  silent.  And  then  her  long- 
stifled  agony  became  articulate  at  last. 

"He  wished  me  peace — peace !  Oh  Holy  Ones — 
Great  Ones,  where  shall  I  find  my  peace?  And  he 
hath  cursed  me!  I  am  accursed,  I  am  a  creature 
scorned,  I  have  no  right  to  move  abroad  save  in  the 
night.  ...  I  have  no  right  to  lift  my  eyes  to  him. 
.  .  .  Oh  Dread  Ones,  why  can  I  not  be  what  I 
seem,  rather  than  what  I  am?  The  sweetness  of 
his  speech  is  as  a  knife  that  pierceth  me.  He  spoke 
not  to  me ;  he  only  cursed  me !" 

She  was  standing  now,  trembling,  and  holding 
out  her  empty  arms  to  the  void, 

"Come  back  to  me!  Come  back  and  curse  me  if 
thou  wilt — my  boy !  My  cloth  of  gold  spun  by  these 
hands!  My  precious  jewel!  .  .  .  Come  back!  Oh 
I  will  confess  it  all  to  thee.  I  will  seek  thy  mercy 
on  my  bended  knees.  .  .  .  And  if  thou  thinkest  I 
am  worthy  of  death,  thou  wilt  let  me  kiss  thee  once 
— but  once,  child  of  my  womb!  Oh  I  will  pay  my 
debt  with  joy  fulness  and  die  under  thy  hands — my 
child!  My  son!" 

She  fell  to  her  knees  and  then,  her  arms  thrown 
across  the  prone  tree-trunk  and  her  face  hidden  upon 
them,  sank  almost  to  the  dust. 


84        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

Far  and  far  away  a  young  man,  riding  furiously, 
hungry  and  soul-exalted,  big  with  an  uplifting  hate, 
threaded  his  way  between  lights  of  fugitive  villages. 

And  the  woman  he  had  saved  and  spoken  with 
was  weeping,  without  hope,  as  she  lay  in  the  enve- 
loping darkness  of  a  raw  jungle  road,  convulsively 
shaken  with  bitter,  despairing  sobs  that  racked  her 
frame — the  beautiful  body  which  had  conceived  and 
borne  him. 

Sikandra  Khan  had  fallen  silent  in  his  tale-telling 
at  last  and  the  apprehensive  circle  had  grown  almost 
stiff  from  fear  and  inaction,  when  the  Gracious  One 
came  toward  them  a  little  way  and  spoke  quietly: 

"We  will  go  now,  Sikandra.  There  is  a  village 
near  this  place,  as  thou  knowest." 


Ill 

Myself  when  young  did  eagerly  frequent 
Doctor  and  Saint,  and  heard  great  argument 
About  it  and  about;  but  evermore 
Came  out  by  the  same  door  where  in  I  went  .  .  . 

The  Moving  Finger  writes;  and,  having  writ, 
Moves  on:  nor  all  your  piety  nor  wit 
Shall  lure  it  back  to  cancel  half  a  line, 
Nor  all  your  tears  wash  out  a  word  of  it. 

Omar  Khayyam, 

The   Mohammedan  merchant  and  the  Buddhist 
monk  sat  cross-legged  on  an  unsteady  little  string 


KAMA     DEVA 85 

bedstead,  but  the  Yogi  squatted  upon  the  naked  dirt, 
callous  to  the  bite  of  ants  and  the  myriad  fleas 
that  leapt  in  the  dust.  Between  them  a  smouldering 
hump  of  dry  dung  smoked  heavily,  holding  off 
mosquito  hordes,  blood-thirsty  as  wolves  long 
starved  for  lack  of  human  victims.  A  rank  flame, 
flaring  at  the  spout  of  an  oil-lamp  set  upon  the 
ground,  gave  what  light  there  was,  for  the  honey- 
pale  moon  was  hidden  by  a  black  swarm  of  clouds. 
It  was  a  miserable,  incredibly  mean  little  Serai.  A 
bamboo  fence  enclosed  half  a  dozen  thatched  huts 
wherein  roosting  fowls  stirred  restlessly.  The  char- 
poys,  upon  which  sat  the  Mohammedan  and  the 
Buddhist,  were  the  sole  furniture  of  this  traveler's 
harborage.  By  another  smoke-fire  of  dung  were 
the  servants  and  the  Mohammedan's  riding-ox, 
bound  on  throat  and  forehead  with  bands  of  blue 
beads. 

The  merchant's  spirit  was  sour  as  curds  at  the 
dismal  prospect. 

"Never  have  I  spread  my  mattress  for  sleep  in 
such  a  place  of  lice — never !  And  I  have  gone  from 
Surat  to  Patna;  from  Allahabad  to  Benares;  from 
Ajmir  to  Lahore.  Even  to  Kabul  and  Ispahan  have 
I  been.  There  are  none  here  to  sell  flour,  rice,  but- 
ter or  herbs — not  a  cowrie's  worth.  Verily  if  a 
man  goeth  upon  a  journey  he  must  become  as  a  pig 
or  a  goat." 


86        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

Going  afoot  from  holy  place  to  holy  place, 
the  Buddhist  monk,  shaven-headed,  yellow- 
robed,  was  a  pilgrim  from  a  Cingalese  monastery. 
He  blinked  mildly  at  the  merchant  across  the 
smoke. 

"Thou  art  troubled,  my  brother,  whereas  I,  be- 
ing freed  of  both  desires  and  antipathies,  experience 
no  inconvenience  from  this  lack.  Truly  all  things 
and  places  are  alike  to  one  who  followeth  the  Mas- 
ter ...  but  I  would  ask  thee,  my  brother,  for  thy 
soul's  sake,  to  be  patient  and  to  commit  no  murder 
upon  the  vermin  that  are  here,  for  we  are  taught 
that  a  hell  existeth  wherein  the  murderers  of  lice 
are  devoured  by  monstrous  worms  armed  with  the 
claws  of  tigers." 

The  merchant,  arrayed  in  loose  garments 
of  striped  silk,  his  grayish  beard  stained  an 
eccentric  auburn  with  henna,  stared  shrewdly 
at  the  placid  monk,  appraising  him  with  a  careful 
eye. 

"By  the  beard  of  the  Prophet !  My  friend,  if  ac- 
count be  taken  of  every  flea  I  have  cracked  since 
there  was  strength  in  my  fingers  then  am  I  double- 
damned  already.  Pshaw!  If  the  life  of  a  louse  be 
of  such  value,  what  say  ye  to  the  life  of  a  man? 
Yet  the  shortest  bridge  to.  Paradise  is  gained  by  the 
slaying  of  unbelievers.  Why  should  worms  await 
the  destroyer  of  vermin,  while  the  destroyer  of  in- 


KAMA     DEVA 87 

fidels  enjoys  the  lovely  daughters  of  a  musk-scented 
harem  and  can  bathe  in  a  pond  of  musk-scented 
milk?" 

The  Buddhist  blinked  benevolently. 

"My  brother,  thou  art  in  grave  error.  A  slayer 
of  men  would  be  debarred  even  from  the  gross  and 
temporary  pleasures  of  such  a  heaven  of  sense,  and 
at  his  re-birth  would  become  incarnated  as  a  scor- 
pion or  an  intestinal  parasite.  By  such  deeds  we 
fetter  ourselves  as  with  chains  of  brass  to  the  circle 
of  births  and  deaths;  hells  and  heavens;  treading 
unendingly  in  the  path  of  our  own  footsteps  like 
bullocks  drawing  the  beam  of  a  cocoanut-oil  mor- 
tar. Only  in  renunciation  lieth  liberty." 

"That  is  truth,"  said  a  deep-seated  guttural  voice. 

The  Yogi  spoke.  His  body,  grayish  with  the 
smearings  of  ashes,  was  stark  as  at  birth  save  for  a 
rag  of  cotton  small  as  the  palm  of  the  hand.  A 
string  of  marigolds  was  about  his  neck;  a  mat  of 
hair  reached  to  his  middle.  His  right  arm,  raised 
stiffly  above  his  head,  was  rigid  as  death  and  lean 
as  famine;  the  nails  of  the  crooked  ringers  had 
grown  downward  into  the  flesh. 

"That  is  truth,"  he  said  deeply.  "I  am  a  fol- 
lower of  the  law  of  Manu.  As  is  recommended  by 
the  law,  I  studied  the  Vedas  and  the  commentaries 
of  the  Brahmins.  I  married  a  wife  and  begot  chil- 
dren. I  abandoned  all  things  and  went  naked  and 


88        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

fasting  in  the  forest,  holding  my  arm  aloft  until  it 
stiffened  and  might  not  be  moved.  Now  I  contem- 
plate the  Supreme  Soul,  which  is  Brahma,  and  await 
my  deliverance.  Renunciation  casteth  off  the  bur- 
den of  re-birth  and  attaineth  union  with  the  Un- 
knowable." 

"Say  rather  that  it  attaineth  to  the  supremest  per- 
fection of  not-being,  my  brother,"  serenely  inter- 
polated the  mild  monk.  "The  emancipated  soul  re- 
flecteth  not,  neither  hateth  nor  loveth.  Like  a  lotus 
lily  on  an  unshaken  pool,  it  floats  unmoving  upon 
the  tranquillity  of  eternal  peace." 

The  Mohammedan  looked  from  the  naked,  ver- 
min-infested beggar  hermit  whose  eyes  were  as  mar- 
velous, unusual  and  dark-lit  as  black  opals,  to  the 
pilgrim-monk,  impersonally  benevolent  and  unshak- 
ably  placid,  sitting  upon  his  charpoy  in  the  imme- 
morial attitude  of  one  who  is  hailed  as  a  holy  man. 
Both  were  destitute  and  undeniably  at  peace. 

The  merchant,  who  had  two  wives  and  five  chil- 
dren ;  prayed  five  times  a  day  automatically ;  relished 
a  game  of  chess  and  a  pilau  of  roast  fowl  and  rice 
mixed  with  currants,  regarded  them  with  mystifica- 
tion. The  Yogi  was  doubtless  somewhat  mad;  cer- 
tainly he  was  unclean.  The  monk  was  well-inten- 
tioned, but  he,  too,  was  foolish. 

"By  your  leave,  my  brothers,  I  will  seek  some 
sleep.  And  may  Allah,  the  Compassionate  and  the 


KAMA     DEVA 89 

Merciful,  avert  from  me  these  manifold  vermin,  or 
there  will  most  surely  be  murder  committed  before 
dawn." 

His  mouth  behind  his  dyed  beard  widened  into  a 
chuckle  of  keen  amusement,  and  he  composed  him- 
self upon  his  mattress,  covering  his  face  with  a 
cloth. 

The  Buddhist  and  the  Hindu  maintained  silence. 
Both  meditated.  The  mosquitoes  whined  thirstily 
in  the  closeness.  A  coming  light  from  without  ap- 
peared between  the  long  chinks  in  the  bamboo  fence. 
Two  men  with  iron  fire-baskets  on  poles  entered  the 
Serai;  then  came  a  palanquin,  black  and  polished, 
with  a  body-servant  walking  beside  it.  The  Mo- 
hammedan, undisturbed,  was  heavily  asleep  under 
his  face-cloth. 

Safa  drew  the  panels  apart.  The  reek  of  smoul- 
dering dung  flavored  the  air.  She  saw  the  men 
huddled  by  the  humped  ox  and  glanced  at  the  two 
laden  charpoys.  There  was  a  rustle  of  fowls  in  the 
four-foot  straw  huts. 

"Sikandra,"  she  called  softly. 

He  came  to  the  open  panelling. 

"Sikandra,  I  cannot  sleep  in  this  place.  The 
house  of  the  woman  from  whom  we  bought  food 
is  not  far  from  here.  I  will  walk  thither;  one  of 
the  torch-bearers  shall  go  before  us.  The  rest  may 
remain  here  for  this  night." 


90        THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAP  A 

An  older  woman,  empty-handed,  was  peacefully 
intent  upon  the  past;  the  younger  woman,  her  child 
on  her  arm,  dwelt  contentedly  upon  the  future. 
From  without  came  a  knocking  at  the  door.  The 
women  looked  questioningly  at  each  other.  The 
elder  rose  and,  going  to  it,  opened  it  with  caution 
a  little  way. 

In  the  space  of  the  partly  opened  door  Safa  saw 
a  figure  whose  smooth  hair  was  shot  with  gray. 

"Chapali,  dost  thou  not  remember  me?"  she 
asked.  "Yesterday  we  bought  cakes  from  thee." 

The  woman  pushed  the  door  wide  open.  Between 
the  faint  light  from  within  and  the  smoky  flare  of 
the  fire-basket  without  stood  a  goddess-like  one  clad 
in  thin,  clinging  silk,  with  a  stone  like  a  swollen 
globule  of  bright  pigeon's  blood  resting  at  the  exact 
joining  of  her  brows.  The  pervasive  scent  of  musk 
set  her  in  a  costly  atmosphere  apart,  like  the  radi- 
ance that  fences  off  a  pictured  deity  from  human- 
kind. Chapali  did  remember,  and  the  awe  of  yes- 
terday returned  upon  her. 

"What  dost  thy  Greatness  wish?"  she  murmured, 
bending  with  joined  palms  as  though  before  a  saint. 
"My  son  is  away,  and  we  are  alone,  my  daughter- 
in-law  and  I." 

"Only  a  drink  of  milk,  Chapali,  and  a  charpoy 
here  by  the  wall,  if  thou  hast  one  that  may  be 
spared." 


KAMA     DEVA 91 

While  the  milk  was  being  poured  Safa  stood  close 
by  the  low  doorway.  It  was  a  mud-built  two- 
roomed  home  with  a  thatch  of  straw.  She,  the 
homeless,  the  wanderer,  looked  wistfully  within  at 
the  exquisitely  rotund  brass  lotas,  sand-scoured  to 
the  luster  of  gold;  at  the  little  blue-daubed  mud 
image  of  Siva ;  at  the  plump,  wide-lipped  young  girl 
seated  on  the  gray  mud  floor,  hard  and  cool  as  stone. 
She  was  suckling  a  nude  boy  baby.  Kings  might 
league  against  kings;  pyres  of  splendid  despair 
could  smoke  heavenward  from  doomed  cities ;  girl- 
hearts,  fluttering  to  the  lure  of  life,  be  stamped  like 
pitiful  pink  lotus-buds  under  the  hoofs  of  fate,  and 
all  the  while  these  peasant-people  would  move  tran- 
quilly and  unknowingly  among  their  milch  cows  and 
about  their  hearths.  Among  such  clusters  of  huts  a 
hundred  years  would  pass  as  a  day  and  a  day.be 
as  a  hundred  years.  To  the  mothers  caressing  their 
children  under  the  broad  smile  of  the  sky,  honored 
by  their  growing  sons,  was  not  the  whole  joy  of 
life  laid  in  their  arms? 

Chapali,  deprecatingly  and  ashamed,  brought  the 
milk  in  a  basin  of  dark-red  chattie  ware.  As  the 
goddess-like  one  drank,  holding  the  bowl  with  both 
hands,  she  noted  the  red-golden  henna  stains  on  the 
finger  nails  and  smelt  musk  and  sandal.  Far  down 
in  her  heart  an  infinitely  humble  envy  stirred  as 
faint  and  evanescent  as  a  ripple  on  a  placid  lake. 


92        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

What  wonderful  great  folk  went  to  and  fro  in  the 
world,  unlaboring,  unsuffering  and  glittering  as 
gods.  Surely  this  was  a  Rani  at  the  very  least. 

When  the  milk  was  drunk  she  wished  to  prepare 
the  inner  sleeping  room,  but  Safa  would  not  have  it 
so.  A  string  bedstead  with  a  mattress  upon  it  and 
a  quilted  cotton  coverlet  was  brought  out  and  set 
by  the  mud  wall  close  to  the  door.  Safa  dismissed 
the  old  man  and  the  torch-bearer. 

"Leave  me  now,  Sikandra,  and  come  hither  again 
at  dawn." 

Chapali  also  went  at  last  within,  wondering  much 
as  she  closed  the  door. 

Sitting  upon  the  poor  bedstead,  bent  slightly  for- 
ward, Safa  watched  the  charcoal  embers  on  the 
open  cooking-hearth  as  the  heart  of  rosy  heat 
bloomed  and  fluctuated.  A  low  enclosing  wall  set 
the  hut  within  a  tiny  compound  and  on  the  farther 
side  of  the  hearth  slept  a  large,  light-colored,  milky- 
smelling  cow,  with  long,  fine  lashes.  Within  the 
hut  there  was  no  sound.  Save  for  the  tiny  flame 
of  living  warmth  that  grew  among  the  coals,  dark- 
ness covered  the  earth  like  a  dense  black  pall. 

Safa's  thought  was  on  the  past.  Its  bitter  deeps 
had  been  shaken  and  the  faces  of  things  long 
drowned  came  wavering  upward  to  the  troubled  sur- 
face. She  saw  a  girl-queen  of  twelve  years,  with  a 
big  ruby  lying  upon  her  babyish  forehead,  huddled 


KAMA     DEVA 93 

down  behind  a  high  divan  in  a  frenzy  of  nervous  ter- 
ror. She  saw  a  second  girl,  older,  a  woman  of 
seventeen,  strung  to  the  stillness  of  impassivity, 
belted  and  head-bound  with  diamonds  like  a  bride 
for  her  awful  reunion  with  the  dead  man  she  had 
loved.  A  third  face,  a  man's,  grew  upon  her  sight, 
rising  through  the  deeps  of  the  bitter  waters;  but 
immediately  she  covered  her  eyes,  pushing  it  under 
and  down,  back  to  the  lowest  slime  that  had  fitly 
held  it  ...  now  a  just-born  child  is  being  held  up 
before  a  half-conscious,  tortured  girl-mother.  "Be 
comforted.  Lo!  thou  hast  borne  a  son,"  says  a 
woman's  voice.  "A  princeling,  and  comely  as  the 
child  of  a  king."  Oh  Mother  Durga,  Mother  Durga ! 
The  child  of  a  king!  .  .  . 

Many  faces  came  now,  the  faces  that  had  filled 
sixteen  years,  but  they  blended  one  with  another, 
undistinguished.  No — the  face  of  one  man  stands 
out  suddenly  from  the  rest.  It  was  strong,  square- 
bearded,  leonine.  His  eyes  compel  her,  appraising, 
desiring.  It  is  an  insult  to  be  so  looked  upon.  But 
this  man  is  splendid;  splendid  in  brain  and  body 
.  .  .  has  he  ever  dealt  with  a  woman  worthy  of 
more  than  lust?  Or  with  wantons  only;  pretty 
women-children,  parrot-brained  and  parrot-fed  with 
sugar?  Or  with  moon-faced,  king-descended  Raj- 
put women,  placid  and  unemotional  as  cows.  Is  she 
still  comely  among  younger  women  ?  True,  she  was 


94        THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

strangely  immature  at  twelve  and  ripened  slowly 
even  after  the  bearing  of  the  child  ...  it  is  seven- 
teen years  since  a  man  laid  hand  upon  her  as  this 
man  has  done.  The  incident  glows  persistently  in 
her  remembrance  like  the  glow  of  charcoal  in  the 
night  .  .  .  and  what  now?  Is  she  to  go  back  to 
the  villages  in  the  lands  of  Vickram — to  the  village 
people  who  look  upon  her  almost  as  Durga  incar- 
nate, knowing  nothing?  What  work  is  there  among 
them  now  for  her?  Is  she  to  sit  day  after  day  se- 
cluded within  the  precinct  of  some  small  temple  dedi- 
cated to  Kali,  the  Black  Mother;  or  in  the  cramped 
women's  court  of  some  headman's  house,  served 
timorously  with  gifts  of  food,  brooding  on  the  hun- 
gry inner  flame  that  feeds  and  feeds  upon  itself, 
waiting  always  for  a  disastrous  word  from  Delhi? 
Surely  it  were  better  to  return.  He  is  there,  alone, 
uncounselled,  held  in  the  dangerous  shadow  of  the 
palace.  This  offered  marriage  is  more  menaceful 
than  a  bare  sword.  And  she  will  not  be  unwel- 
comed — no,  there  is  a  peril  there.  But  she  is  strong 
and  subtle — surely  she  is  strong  enough  for  that ! 

The  primeval  sky-gods  were  unfolding  a  tran- 
scendent miracle.  Across  the  eastward  fields  of  dark 
violets  the  amber-dappled  dawn  fled  to  the  confines 
of  heaven,  revealing  a  palely  beautiful  woman  sit- 
ting without  sleep  by  the  door  of  a  mud-hut  in  a 
mud-walled  compound.  The  cow  still  slumbered, 


KAMA     DEVA 95 

but  within  a  waking  child  cried  and  the  sound 
stabbed  Safa  like  a  tiny  knife.  The  charcoal  was 
cold  on  the  hearth — like  her  own  life.  Agni,  the 
glorious  triple  god  of  the  Vedas,  Sun,  Fire  and 
Lightning,  had  always  been  to  her  the  highest  sym- 
bol of  divinity.  There  was  something  of  fire  in  her- 
self, but  it  was  smothered  fire.  What  if  a  swift, 
hot  breath  from  without  should  waken  it  at  last  to 
its  fierce,  irresistible  blossoming  of  flame  ? 

Someone  stood  in  the  gap  of  the  wall,  salaaming 
to  her.  It  was  Sikandra  Khan. 

Safa  arose. 

"To-day  I  go  again  to  Delhi,  Sikandra." 


PART   III 
THE   EFFIGY 


Lo,  falling  from  my  constant  mind, 
Lo,  parched  and  withered,  deaf  and  blind, 
I  whirl  like  leaves  in  roaring  wind.  .  .  . 
In  my  dry  brain  my  spirit  soon, 
Down-deepening  from  swoon  to  swoon 
Faints  like  a  dazzled  morning  moon. 

"Fa  tima" — Tennyson. 

OH  go — go  from  me!     Stupid  whelp  of  a 
black  dog!"    The  prettily  formed  young 
negress  whom    Suvona   kept   constantly 
by  her  that  her  own  fairness  might  be  the  more  em- 
phasized went  quickly  out  of  the  sight  of  her  mis- 
tress and  huddled  down  on  the  farther  side  of  the 
door.     Here  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later  Sita  found 
her,  stolid  and  staring  like  a  big  child.    The  snake- 
charmer  remarked  the  nearly-closed  door. 
"Is  Suvona  within  ?"  she  inquired  softly. 
The  black  girl  nodded. 
"And  her  humor — has  it  sweetened  at  all  ?" 
97 


98        THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAP  A 

The  negress  shook  her  head  rapidly,  the  great 
gold  crescents  in  her  ears  jerking  violently.  Sita 
put  out  her  hand  to  push  inward  the  hanging  cur- 
tains before  the  doorway,  but  the  negress  caught 
at  her  dress  in  scared  protest. 

"Shish-h !  Stay  where  thou  art,  stupid !"  Sita  re- 
plied as  she  went  into  the  room. 

The  chamber  was  in  semi-darkness.  The  deep, 
square  window  recess  was  curtained  across,  but  a  j 
trace  of  pure  daylight  slipped  around  the  edges  of 
the  heavy  curtains.  Hanging  from  a  silver  chain 
was  a  hole-pierced,  enameled  silver  lamp,  giving 
sparse  light,  muffled  and  yellow.  A  hanging  por- 
celain censer  smoked  thinly.  The  air  was  heavy 
with  stale  incense.  The  suspended  lamp  threw  a 
faint,  flickering  light  on  the  cool,  tiled  walls.  A 
mass  of  trinkets  were  spilled  upon  the  floor  from  an 
overturned  box.  A  tray  of  sweets  was  untouched. 
Suvona  lay  in  abandonment  upon  a  broad,  low, 
ebony  bed  chequered  with  flecks  of  mother  o'  pearl. 
Her  hair  was  unbound;  her  supple  body,  twisted 
half  over,  betrayed  exasperation  in  every  movement. 
Sita  squatted  down  between  the  tray  of  sweetstuffs 
and  the  overturned  trinket-coffer. 

"Ai  mi!  my  sister,  I  heard  thou  wert  not  well. 
Is  it  so?" 

She  had  heard  nothing  of  the  kind,  and  Suvona 
knew  it,  but  the  blonde  was  beyond  self-control  and 


THE     EFFIGY 99 

keyed  up  to  expend  her  malice  and  her  mortification 
upon  any  listener.  Sita  would  repeat  it  to  everyone, 
of  course.  Bah!  Let  her!  She  did  not  care  so 
much  as  the  value  of  a  withered  fig. 

"She,  who  told  thee  that,  is  the  daughter  of  a 
liar.  Am  I  well  ?  I  have  strength  enough  to  stran- 
gle that  Bazaar-walker,  that  sister  of  fiends,  that 
lewd  she-devil  of  the  jungle  could  I  get  my  hands 
upon  her!" 

"Thou  speakest  of  Safa,  the  spell-caster — the  new 
plaything?  Yea,  we  are  all  put  aside  in  the  closet 
now  and  the  door  fastened.  But  what  of  it?  We 
of  the  Zenana,  we  know  the  Peerless  One.  Now 
he  is  hot  on  the  chase,  spreading  nets  and  snares, 
but  when  she  hath  dropped  to  his  lure  and  he  hath 
enjoyed  her  for  a  while  he  will  weary  and  presently 
return  to  the  old  ways.  Were  I  in  thy  place,  my 
sister,  I  would  acquire  new  tumbling  tricks  against 
the  time  of  his  wearying." 

Suvona  sat  up;  her  pale  gray  eyes,  excitedly  en- 
larged and  brightened  with  black  paint,  were  evil, 
furious  and  dry  as  the  skin  of  a  snake. 

"Oh  thou!  Perchance  thou  canst  grow  fat  on 
such  stale  food?  I  cannot!  What!  Am  I  to  lie 
here  and  smile  while  this  cold  stone,  this  window- 
creature  plays  the  coy  virgin  with  the  Peerless  One  ? 
Faugh!  the  impudent  harlot!" 

Sita    remained    quite    unmoved.      The    matter 


100      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

touched  her  hardly  at  all,  but  it  had  most  effectually 
broken  the  mental  stagnation  of  the  Zenana,  which 
now  buzzed  with  gossip  from  morning  till  night, 
and  she  was  pleased  at  the  humiliation  of  Suvona. 

"Yea,  it  may  be  that  she  is  a  harlot,  but  one  thing 
is  sure,  she  knows  how  to  baffle  a  man  that  he  may 
pursue  the  more.  This  is  the  seventh  day  since  she 
came  again  to  Delhi  and  the  Peerless  One  hath  not 
yet  laid  eyes  upon  her." 

"No — the  she-devil!  And  hath  he  come  once 
hither  during  these  seven  days?  Hath  he  sent  me 
even  so  much  as  a  jade  ear-stud?  For  whom  did 
I  cause  those  sweetmeats  to  be  brought  here  last 
night?  Oh  I  would  die  gladly  if  I  might  strangle 
her  first!" 

As  suddenly  as  she  had  sat  up  she  relapsed  again 
upon  the  bed,  flattening  herself  down  upon  it,  bury- 
ing her  face  in  sullen  fury  in  her  unbound  hair,  and 
hiding  behind  the  curve  of  an  upflung  arm.  This 
chamber  of  dim,  unwholesome,  artificial  atmosphere, 
mustily  over-spiced  with  incense,  contained  this  per- 
fect, evil-tempered  blonde  animal  as  a  diseased  shell 
contains  a  pinkish  pearl — the  fruit  of  its  disease. 
It  was  no  place  wherein  cheerful-minded  folk  might 
long  sojourn.  So  thought  Sita.  But  she  had  greatly 
enjoyed  the  revelation  of  Suvona's  frantic  spite.  She 
would  offer  one  more  tit-bit  of  gossip  before  she 
went. 


THE     EFFIGY 101 

"Hast  thou  forgotten,  my  sister?  To-day  Dil- 
Khusha  weds  with  the  son  of  Vickram.  Kali  mai ! 
if  report  say  true  he  is  as  unwilling  as  she !  But  the 
Peerless  One  has  spoken." 

There  was  no  response,  so  the  other  continued : 

"For  my  part,  I  pity  her,  though  she  is  often  ill- 
humored  and  Draupadi  hath  spoilt  her.  Draupadi 
is  with  her  now." 

There  was  not  the  least  sign  from  the  disordered 
ebony  bed.  Suvona  might  have  been  deaf  as  well 
as  semi-nude.  Sita  remained  silent  a  moment.  She 
recalled  a  certain  string  of  pearls  and  a  statement, 
swollen  with  over-confidence,  that  must  still  be  un- 
fulfilled. Smiling,  she  got  up  carefully,  took  a 
piece  of  confectionery  from  the  round  tray  and, 
avoiding  treading  on  the  displaced  trinkets,  went  out 
quietly. 

A  little  later  she  was  parleying  before  another 
closed  door  where  Madri  squatted,  keeping  guard. 

"It  is  useless.  No  one  may  go  in  to  her.  She 
desires  no  one." 

Madri's  negation  was  so  positive  that  a  rose-bud 
was  shaken  from  behind  her  ear. 

"Pshaw !  Madri.  Is  not  this  the  day  of  the  mar- 
riage ?" 

"Ay  .  .  .  when  I  come  to  my  marrying  God 
grant  that  it  be  of  a  different  sort !" 

Sita  looked  at  the  girl  for  a  second  or  two,  faintly 


102      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

smiling;  then  departed  as  she  had  come.  Madri  set 
the  rosebud  again  behind  her  ear. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  door  a  soul  was  striving 
tumultuously  against  the  bars  that  caged  it.  Dil- 
Khusha  lay  face  downward  on  her  bed.  She  was 
half  dressed,  wearing  only  a  tinselled  skirt.  Her 
smooth,  heavy,  ebony-black  hair  was  unbraided.  She 
wept  convulsively,  until  exhausted,  as  the  passionate 
hysterical  tempest  neared  its  end.  Draupadi,  sitting 
with  her  back  against  a  hard  silk  bolster,  chewed 
a  mixture  of  betel-nut  and  lime.  She  was  maternal 
and  soothing. 

"There,  there,  my  daughter !  What  must  be,  must 
be.  And,  remember,  thou  art  a  Rajput  on  thy 
mother's  side  and  must  meet  thy  fate  with  courage." 

"But  I  cannot  be  a  wife  to  this  Vickram!  I  can- 
not !  I  am  not  a  child  who  has  seen  nothing  of  men ; 
or  a  woman  who  waits  for  a  strange  husband  as 
for  a  god.  My  soul  is  not  in  my  body — it  is  in  the 
hands  of  him  who  is  more  glorious  to  me  than  a 
king's  elephant!  In  my  spirit  I  am  his  wife  al- 
ready. His  honor  is  my  honor,  and  if  they  place 
my  body  within  the  power  of  another  man  I  will 
destroy  it." 

Draupadi's  placid,  rather  heavy  moon-like  face 
clouded  over  with  reflected  trouble.  But  she  raised 
no  protest  against  the  gasping  threat  of  self-slaugh- 
ter that  came  from  the  lips  of  the  girl  lying  with 


THE     EFFIGY  103 

naked  shoulders,  uncoiled  hair  and  disheveled 
skirt  upon  the  bed.  Draupadi  had  been  born  in  a 
King's  Zenana  and  a  King's  Zenana  was  still  the 
limit  of  her  life;  she  had  heard  such  threats  before. 
Often  they  meant  nothing ;  sometimes  they  were  ful- 
filled. Well,  brave  blood  was  not  a  heritage  of 
men-children  only.  Such  courage  was  bred  in  the 
bone  and  flesh  of  the  race.  Perhaps  that  ending- 
would  be  better  than  the -alternative.  But  she  loved 
the  child  as  her  own.  Ai  mi!  their  fate  was  laid 
upon  them  all  like  the  yoke  upon  the  necks  of  cat- 
tle, and  of  what  avail  were  tears?  She  sighed 
largely  and  softly. 

Face  downward  upon  the  bed  Dil-Khusha  sobbed 
convulsively.  For  the  last  seven  days  she  had  wak- 
ened each  morning  to  the  narrow  torment  of  a 
prison  and  now  the  impending  intolerable  sentence 
was  to  be  executed  without  further  delay.  There 
were  only  thin  gold  bangles  at  her  wrists,  but  in 
spite  of  this  she  was  as  helpless  as  a  prisoner  loaded 
with  iron.  Desperation  had  hold  of  her;  she  felt 
she  could  not  do  this  thing,  and  yet  she  must. 

Unless  death  or  sudden  disease  smote  her  she 
would  be  the  wife  of  Kama  Deva  before  the  first 
stars  came  out.  And  she  could  not  endure  even 
the  thought  of  it.  The  artificial  life  of  the  Zenana 
fostered  precocity  and  an  intense  consciousness  of 
sex.  The  little  world  of  luxurious  and  pampered 


104      THE    SUTTEE     OF    SAP  A 

women,  shut  in  by  alabaster  walls,  was  a  precinct 
set  apart  for  sensual  love;  no  other  interests  existed 
there.  Sensuousness  was  the  very  breath  of  the 
place.  The  sense-clogging  sweetness  of  the  heavy 
white  jasmine  clusters ;  the  eternal  murmurous  love- 
making  of  a  host  of  tame  doves ;  the  perfume  of  dis- 
tilled roses,  of  carved  sandalwood;  the  recital  of  in- 
terminable Arabic,  Persian  and  Hindu  love-legends 
with  a  profusion  of  amorous  detail — all  ministered 
to  the  stimulation  of  passion,  to  the  forcing  of  buds 
into  an  exotic,  early  bloom,  evanescent,  beautiful, 
and  delirious. 

Dil-Khusha  had  been  just  such  a  love-hungry, 
quickly  opened  bud.  Now,  at  fifteen,  she  was  a  pas- 
sionately loving  woman,  with  all  a  woman's  utter 
horror  of  any  man  save  one.  And  she  was  to  be 
wedded  in  a  few  hours  to  a  young  man  who  was  as 
strange  to  her  as  the  passing  folk  in  the  bazaars. 
There  only  remained  one  door,  and  that  could  not 
be  opened  save  with  the  sharp  thrust  of  a  knife.  It 
was  impossible  to  procure  any  drug,  for  the  fear  of 
the  Great  King  lay  like  the  unmoving  shadow  of  a 
cloud  upon  the  white  Zenana.  She  would  never 
feel  the  close  pressure  of  her  lover's  lips  on  hers 
again  as  on  that  one  morning  among  the  yellow 
roses;  never  yield  herself  wholly  to  his  love;  never 
bear  a  child  to  him.  If  she  could  only  lie  against 
his  breast  when  she  drove  home  the  knife !  But  she 


THE     EFFIGY 105 

must  die  alone,  away  from  him,  away  from  Drau- 
padi,  under  the  nuptial  lamps  of  a  stranger's  bridal 
chamber,  and  a  stranger  would  find  her  first  when 
she  was  dead.  Bhima,  Madri,  the  pigeons,  the 
lemon-tree  garden — they  would  all  be  the  same  to- 
morrow when  her  body  was  being  dressed  for  burial. 
Why  had  she  ever  been  born  ?  Surely  her  heart  was 
breaking ! 

The  convulsive,  hysterical  weeping  was  the  only 
sound  in  the  quiet.  The  girl's  whole  body  shook 
with  it;  she  gasped  rather  than  sobbed.  Draupadi 
had  ceased  chewing  betel.  She  sat  impassively, 
watching  the  grief-stricken  girl,  with  a  kind  of 
heavy  patience.  A  miniature  gazelle,  its  tiny  hoofs 
gilded,  wearing  a  collar  of  silver  bells,  stepped 
daintily  into  the  room.  The  white  cat,  Bhima, 
curled  up  comfortably  on  an  immense  cushion, 
watched  the  deer  with  lazy  arrogance  and  distrust. 
The  pupils  of  his  pale  blue  eyes  were  narrowed  to 
a  vertical  slit.  The  gazelle  stepped  daintily  about 
the  room,  the  bells  on  its  collar  tinkling  musically. 

Draupadi  observed  the  shortening  of  the  broken 
sunshine  that  slanted  inward  through  the  screened 
window;  it  was  nearing  the  hour  of  noon.  Soon 
they  must  dress  the  bride.  Her  poor  little  dove 
must  cease  weeping  now  and  prepare  to  brighten 
her  eyes  with  black  paint.  That  disobedience  to 
the  Peerless  One's  command  might  be  even  thought 


of,  never  entered  the  older  woman's  mind.  It  had 
never  entered  Dil-Khusha's.  The  woman  of  thirty- 
five  and  the  woman  of  fifteen  were  equally  palace 
born  and  palace  bred. 

"May  the  Dread  Ones  have  pity  on  thee,  my 
child,  for  they  have  set  thee  a  hard  thing  to  do.1 
But  remember  that  thou  art  thy  mother's  daughter. 
Cease  thy  crying,  my  little  dove,  for  we  must  bathe 
thee  and  prepare  thee  now.  .  .  .  Perhaps  Rajah 
Adhiraj  will  contrive  to  take  thee  from  the  other, 
even  at  the  last  moment.  He  is  a  Rajput  and  I  have 
heard  of  such  things." 

Dil-Khusha  sat  up  abruptly.  Here  was  hope. 
Who  could  tell  what  might  come  to  pass? 

"Draupadi!  Dost  thou  think  it?  Oh  if  I  were 
sure — if  I  were  certain  of  it.  .  .  .  If  I  could  only 
send  some  word  to  him!" 

Draupadi  had  spoken  at  random,  but  now  the 
possibility  of  some  counter-plan  occurred  seriously 
to  her.  Anything  might  be  possible. 

"Through  whose  aid  did  he  have  sight  of  thee 
at  first?"  she  inquired,  with  the  low-spoken  alert- 
ness of  the  practised  Zenana-intriguer. 

"I  do  not  rightly  know.  I  did  not  ask.  But  I 
think  Madri  hath  some  knowledge  of  it." 

"Maybe.  Such  girls  are  more  easily  bought  than 
a  basket  of  marigolds.  Call  her  in,  child.  Question 
her,  and  be  liberal  with  her  so  that  she  may  not  lie." 


THE     EFFIGY 107 

"Oh,  Draupadi,  dost  thou  think  that  there  is 
hope?" 

"Who  shall  say?  We  shall  know  better 
when  we  have  spoken  with  this  little  taker  of 
bribes." 

Dil-Khusha,  quivering  with  emotion,  clapped  her 
hands  sharply.  Almost  immediately  Madri  entered, 
her  eyes  lowered  submissively.  Dil-Khusha,  sitting 
up  half-clad  upon  her  satin  mattress,  marred  and  dis- 
heveled by  her  copious  weeping,  strove  to  speak 
steadily  and  with  authority. 

"Madri,  I  desire  thee  to  speak  the  truth  to  me 
without  fear  .  .  .  Dost  thou  know  in  what  manner 
he — in  what  manner  Rajah  Adhiraj  obtained  knowl- 
edge of  my  summer-house  and  of  the  hour  at  which 
I  was  used  to  go  there?  Tell  all  thou  knowest! 
There  will  be  no  blame  for  thee." 

"Oh,  my  mistress,  what  should  a  lowly  one  such 
as  I  know  of  such  matters?" 

Madri's  attitude,  though  perfectly  correct,  was 
exasperatingly  meek  and  unhelpful.  Then,  in  the 
baffled  pause,  Dil-Khusha  remembered  the  latter  part 
of  Draupadi's  advice.  She  unclasped  a  couple  of 
gold  bracelets  and  held  them  out. 

"Wear  these,  Madri.  Now  tell  what  thou  know- 
est." The  handmaiden  accepted  the  gift  with  hum- 
ble reverence.  (They  were  a  heavy  pair;  they 
would  look  well  upon  her  wrists;  there  was  no  risk; 


•108      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

she  would  tell  all — decided  Madri.)     Then,  with 
clasped  hands,  she  looked  up  and  became  voluble : 

"My  mistress  is  more  generous  than  the  season 
of  spring  time.  May  the  dust  of  the  earth  become 
gold  beneath  thy  feet !  .  .  .  Through  no  fault  of  my 
own  a  little  knowledge  hath  come  to  me,  which  I 
had  almost  ceased  to  remember.  I  will  recall  what 
1 1  can,  and  only  the  pure  truth  shall  dwell  in  my 
'  mouth.  .  .  .  Eleven  days  ago,  as  I  was  on  my  way 
to  Chunda,  the  sweetmeat  seller,  to  fetch  sugared 
almonds,  a  man  came  from  the  shadow  of  the  col- 
onnade and  accosted  me.  He  was  comely  to  look 
at — though  I  scarcely  lifted  my  eyes  to  him — and 
garmented  like  the  servant  of  a  rich  master.  He 
stopped  me  there  in  the  shadow  and  asked  me  cer- 
tain questions  concerning  thee,  my  mistress,  offering 
me  a  headband  of  turquoises.  But  I  refused  it  and 
would  not  answer  him.  Then  he  put  into  my  hand 
a  giant  pearl  like  a  mass  of  hardened  seafoam 
(Madri  was  drawing  joyfully  upon  an  opulent  im- 
agination), but  I  would  not  accept  it  and  kept  my 
lips  closed.  Then  he  spoke  to  me  softly  of  a  certain 
Rajah  who  could  neither  eat  nor  sleep,  whose  soul 
was  dried  up  like  grass  in  a  drought,  and  my  heart 
melted  under  his  words.  I  told  him  of  the  summer- 
house  and  of  the  hour  at  which  thou  wast  accus- 
'  tomed  to  go  thither.  Not  for  the  turquoises  nor 
|  yet  for  the  marvelous  pearl  did  I  speak — I  spoke 


THE    EFFIGY 109 

from  pity,  and  my  sin  was  the  melting  of  my  heart." 

Madri  stopped,  partly  to  regain  her  breath  and 
also  because,  having  neatly  rounded  off  her  story, 
an  additional  touch  might  spoil  it. 

"Hast  thou  met  this  man-servant  since  ?"  put  in 
Draupadi  keenly.  Beneath  the  lavish  pearls  and  tur- 
quoise she  had  discerned  a  very  good  appearance  of 
probability. 

"Oh  Moon  of  the  Zenana,  I  have  not  seen  him 
even  in  a  dream.  I  have  not  been  to  Chunda,  the 
sweetmeat  seller,  since  the  day  on  which  the  white 
witch  came  to  the  Durbar." 

Draupadi  considered  for  a  while.  The  little  ga- 
zelle tip-toed  into  the  vicinity  of  Bhima's  cushion 
and  Bhima  hissed  at  it — an  unpleasant  pink-mouthed 
hiss. 

"I  see  no  other  way.  It  may  be  that  this  man  is 
waiting  even  now  at  the  place  where  thou  didst  meet 
him.  It  may  be  that  he  hath  waited  there  during 
each  of  these  seven  days  on  the  chance  of  thy  com- 
ing. If  I  had  known  of  this  before  much  might 
have  been  done.  Now  we  are  at  the  very  threshold 
of  this  marriage,  with  scarce  time  to  dress  thy  mis- 
tress before  they  summon  her  for  the  Bride's  Choice. 
Girl,  thou  must  go  at  once  to  the  sweetmeat  seller's. 
Keep  thine  eyes  open  and  thy  wits  sharpened.  If 
thou  shouldst  meet  with  this  man-servant  again  say 
to  him " 


110      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

But  Dil-Khusha  interrupted. 

"No,  no!  Say  nothing,  Madri — nothing.  Give 
him  these  and  tell  him  only  that  they  are  for — for 
his  master  from  thy  mistress." 

With  abrupt  fingers,  that  fluttered  like  little  ner- 
vous birds,  she  put  a  yellow  rose  and  a  tiny  dagger, 
cased  in  ivory,  in  Madri's  hands.  She  had  taken  the 
rose  from  a  brazen  black-enameled  bowl  that  was 
filled  with  a  profusion  of  them.  They  had  been 
gathered  in  the  lemon-tree  garden  by  the  walls  of 
the  yellow  marble  summer-house.  Draupadi  looked 
questioningly  at  her. 

"I  do  "not  want  to  send  any  other  message.  He 
will  understand.  The  rose  will  speak  of — the  sum- 
mer-house to  him  .  .  .  and  of  one  morning.  And 
the  other — if  he  cannot  come  to  me  .  .  ." 

She  turned  suddenly  away  from  them  and  hid  her 
face  among  the  pressed  and  twisted  cushions,  hud- 
dling down  among  them. 

"Go  immediately,"  said  Draupadi  sharply.  "Do 
as  thy  mistress  hath  ordered  and  return  as  quickly 
as  thou  canst." 

When  Madri  was  gone  Draupadi  got  up,  sighing, 
and  went  over  to  the  girl  and  patted  her  bare  shoul- 
ders. Bhima,  abandoning  his  cushion,  sought  a 
patch  of  hot  sunlight  strewn  with  the  cool  yellow 
flakes  of  fallen  rose  leaves,  wherein  he  rolled  in  fluffy 
ecstasy;  then,  lying  supinely  on  his  back,  with  his 


THE     EFFIGY  111 

hind  legs  drawn  up  and  his  forepaws  limp,  in  the 
attitude  of  a  dead  rabbit,  he  blinked  blue-eyed  at 
the  sun. 

Madri,  hiding  that  which  she  carried  beneath  her 
red  muslin  veil,  threaded  the  alabaster  labyrinth  of 
the  Zenana  as  quickly  and  quietly  as  a  cat  slips 
through  a  tangle  of  house-yards  and  rubbish  alleys. 
She  was  a  trifle  awed  by  the  keen,  naked  edge  of 
tragedy  that  had  been  suddenly  laid  bare  among  the 
flowers  and  cushions.  Ai  mai !  if  Dil-Khusha  killed 
herself  it  would  indeed  be  a  sorrowful  thing.  With 
what  measure  of  intensity  she  was  capable  of  she 
desired  that  the  man  who  had  bribed  her  might  be 
there  again.  If  he  was  not,  Dil-Khusha  would 
doubtless  kill  herself;  Draupadi  would  make  her  no 
present  of  dresses  or  goldsmith's  work,  and  there 
would  be  recrimination  and  the  sour  after-taste  of  a 
spoilt  intrigue.  It  would  be  worth  one  of  her  new 
gold  armlets  to  her  if  he  were  there.  And  he  was 
a  good-looking  man,  too. 

Servants  were  numerous  as  ants  in  the  Durbar 
court,  which  was  being  sprinkled  with  scented  water 
and  strewn  with  marigolds.  Madri  strove  as  nearly 
as  possible  to  walk  in  her  own  footsteps  of  ten  days 
ago.  As  she  went  slowly,  looking  this  way  and 
that,  she  descried  Chunda  joking  flirtatiously  with 
another  palace  girl  under  the  wooden  awning  of  his 
stall,  but  it  woke  no  desire  in  her  to  slap  the  face 


THE    SUTTEE    OF    SAFA 

of  this  rival.  She  was  getting  very  near  the  place 
where  the  stranger  had  spoken  to  her.  There  were 
a  number  of  men-servants  squatting  or  standing 
near  by.  One  stood  not  twelve  steps  from  her,  in 
the  shadow  of  the  colonnade  ...  it  was  the  man 
who  had  spoken  to  her  concerning  her  young  mis- 
tress. 

He  wore  a  long  servant's  tunic  of  dark  cloth 
and  was  badgeless.  He  might  have  passed  for  the 
attendant  of  a  moderate  merchant.  Two  steady 
eyes  were  concentrated  upon  her,  held  hers  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  the  man  moved  slowly  out 
into  the  sunlight,  going  before  her,  but  in  another 
direction.  Madri,  altering  her  course  as  though 
from  the  intention  of  her  errand,  followed  him  at  a 
distance.  About  them  other  servants  held  fretful, 
pure-blooded  horses;  women  with  trays  of  flowers 
went  to  and  fro,  and  the  bare,  curved  swords  of 
clustered  guards  shone  like  newly-burnished  silver. 
The  man  whom  Madri  followed  slipped  into  a  pas- 
sageway between  a  tailor's  stall  and  a  perfume  ven- 
dor's. It  was  dim  in  this  passage,  and  the  place 
was  invested  with  a  closed  privacy  despite  the  near- 
ness of  the  teeming  Durbar  court.  Madri  had  gone 
carefully  some  little  way  along  it  when  she  saw  the 
man  standing  facing  her.  He  said  nothing.  After 
a  moment  she  freed  her  hand  from  the  veil  and 
held  out  the  rose  and  the  tiny  dagger. 


THE    EFFIGY 118 

"These  are  for  thy  master  from  my  mistress." 

He  took  them  from  her,  cautioning  her  mean- 
while : 

"Do  not  leave  this  place  when  I  do.  Let  there 
be  a  space  between  thine  outgoing  and  mine."  As 
he  spoke  he  moved  past  her  and  went  straight  out 
of  the  passage.  Madri  was  left  alone. 

She  was  astonished;  then  she  was  displeased. 
What!  Was  she  no  better  than  a  dog  upon  whom 
speech  is  wasted?  And  not  even  a  bangle  to  com- 
pensate her  for  the  anxiety  of  her  mission! 

"May  he  marry  a  pock-marked  woman  without 
virtue,"  she  said  viciously  to  herself.  She  began  to 
wonder  who  the  girl  was  whom  she  had  seen  joking 
with  Chunda. 


II 

.  .  .  Does  Great  God 

Expect  I  shall  clasp  air  and  kiss  the  wind 

Forever?    And  the  budding  cometh  on, 

The  burgeoning,  the  cruel  flowering: 

At  night  the  quickening  splash  of  rain,  at  dawn 

The  muffled  call  of  birds  how  like  to  babes 

And  I  amid  these  sights  and  sounds  must  starve. 

"Paolo  and  Francesco" — Stephen  Phillips. 

Safa,  clad  in  a  loose  silk  garment  open  at  the 
breast,  lay  full  length  upon  a  mattress.    The  room 


114      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

was  empty  of  any  other  presence  and  the  house  was 
strangely  quiet  in  the  warm  forenoon. 

She  had  found  a  lodging  with  awed  and  reverent 
merchant  folk  who  had  had  trade  dealings  with  the 
lands  of  Vickram.  They  knew  of  her  by  repute 
and  abased  themselves  to  the  dust  before  her,  look- 
ing also  upon  her  coming  as  a  lucky  omen  from 
the  gods.  Had  not  one  of  the  household  milch 
cows  given  birth  to  twins  since  she  crossed  their 
threshold  ? 

For  seven  days  she  had  kept  closely  within  her 
own  chamber,  and  all  the  while  the  house  was  as  a 
beleaguered  city  straitly  girt  about  by  hungry 
armies.  Every  day  Akbar,  the  All  Powerful, 
sought  by  this  means  or  by  that  to  gain  access  to 
rher;  every  day  a  gift,  with  some  subtle  message, 
was  laid  at  her  feet.  In  the  still,  dark  hours  of  the 
night  the  merchant  and  his  wife  would  whisper  to- 
gether with  bated  breath  discussing  the  situation 
and  the  munificence  descending  daily  upon  their 
house  like  golden  rain;  but  their  fearful  reverence 
dominated  them  and  they  would  accept  no  bribe. 
Akbar  was  all-powerful,  Lord  of  Delhi,  almost  of 
the  world,  but  Safa  filled  them  with  the  fear,  power 
and  wonder  of  the  gods — was  perhaps  Durga  in- 
carnate— and  had  not  their  milch  cow  borne  twins  ? 

As  she  lay  easefully  upon  the  mattress,  Safa  was 
gathering  her  strength  of  spirit  as  a  wrestler  gathers 


THE     EFFIGY  115 

his  strength  of  body  before  going  down  into  the 
cleared  circle  where  he  will  meet  his  enemy.  It  was 
the  day  appointed  for  the  Bride's  Choice  of  Dil-Khu- 
sha — a  choice  from  which  all  freedom  of  choice  was 
barred;  a  day  of  crisis  for  Kama  Deva.  Through 
all  her  being  Safa  felt  the  weird  magnetic  thrill  that 
presages  catastrophe.  Even  as  she  lay  she  was  con- 
scious as  it  were  of  cords  drawing  her  urgently, 
potently  toward  the  great  white  Durbar  where  she 
would  be  needed.  And  yet — Akbar  .  .  . 

The  arch-divided  window  opening  was  unscreened 
by  any  lattice,  for  it  overlooked  an  inner  house-court 
frequented  only  by  the  womenkind.  A  thick  clus- 
ter of  some  sumptuous,  purple-flowered  creeper  grew 
up  from  the  little  court  over  the  top  of  one  of  the 
high  sheltering  walls.  Above  the  opposite  wall  some 
branches  of  a  splendidly  grown  orange  tree  stretched 
over,  bearing  some  scattered,  ripened  fruit  amid  the 
heavy  thatch  of  leaves.  The  unusually  hot  stillness 
seemed  as  expectant  as  a  passionate  woman  waiting 
for  the  kiss  of  love.  Safa,  raised  upon  soft  silk 
pillows,  could  look  down  into  the  court.  The  pro- 
fuse purple  clusters  extending  from  pavement  to 
wall  top  drew  her  eyes.  Surely  the  love-god  might 
dwell  amid  such  flowers,  sucking  honey  with  the 
enraptured  bees.  Such  love  as  came  to  her  now 
was  not  as  the  first,  the  almost  child-love  that  came 
with  almond  blossoms  in  its  hands.  No,  it  was  the 


116      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

love  of  maturity,  of  the  hot-blooded,  dominant  man 
and  the  full-statured,  deep-natured  woman,  gorgeous 
as  the  vivid  purple  blossoms  of  the  creeper,  fierce  as 
fire,  vital  as  the  breath  of  the  living  .  .  . 

A  slight  sound  came  from  below — the  creak  of  a 
door  hinge.  A  slip  of  femininity  stole  across  to  the 
well  in  the  center  of  the  court.  She  was  the  elder 
daughter  of  the  house,  a  girl  of  thirteen.  No  other 
windows  overlooked  the  precinct,  and  it  was  the 
hour  of  siesta.  She  sat  upon  the  well-curb  waiting. 
Presently  there  was  a  commotion  among  the 
branches  of  the  orange  tree.  A  ripe  orange  fell 
with  a  deadened  thump  and  a  few  stray  leaves  flick- 
ered down.  Then  a  rope  dropped  and  hung,  barely 
reaching  to  the  pavement.  The  girl  on  the  well- 
curb  rose  expectantly.  Slipping  down  the  rope 
came  a  lithe,  handsome  boy  of  fifteen;  silently  the 
two  figures  blent  and  became  almost  as  one  in  the 
shadow  of  the  over-reaching  orange  tree,  and  so 
stayed  for  a  long  moment  of  ecstasy.  A  sudden 
stir  sounded  within  the  house;  in  the  tree  shadow 
the  two  standing  as  one  fell  apart;  the  boy  and  the 
rope  vanished  as  they  had  come  and  the  girl  slid 
like  a  little  noonday  ghost  to  the  doorway  and  the 
hinge  creaked  once  more.  The  court  held  only  the 
vines  of  purple  blossom  and  the  wavering  shadow 
of  the  orange  tree. 

Safa  had  watched  intently  the  revelation  of  this 


THE     EFFIGY 117 

small  secret  life-drama,  furtive  as  a  soundless  sub- 
terranean streamlet  stealing  on  beneath  the  feet  of 
the  busy  household.  Love — it  was* the  master-pas- 
sion. All  about  her  the  glowing  world  beat  like 
a  great  heart.  Sweet  fruit  swelled  and  ripened  like 
the  bosoms  of  women ;  white  pigeons  against  a  tur- 
quoise sky  murmured  together,  making  an  amorous 
mosaic  of  mother  o'  pearl  and  lapis  lazuli ;  creepers 
flung  arm-like  tendrils  about  the  trunks  of  trees 
and  the  shafts  of  columns;  in  a  hundred  darkly 
shadowed  places  men  sought  the  lips  of  girls  hun- 
grily. And  she  was  set  apart,  aloof,  above  it  all, 
seemingly  but  a  solitary  pinnacle  of  ice.  Far  below 
the  blossom-clusters  thickened  and  the  bees  slept 
honey-drunken  .  .  . 

Safa  stirred  among  the  silk  pillows.  She  frowned 
a  little,  unknowingly.  A  tiny  hole-pierced  golden 
ball  containing  spice  rested  caressingly  between 
her  rounded  breasts.  She  shut  her  eyes,  turning 
toward  the  inner  darkness  of  the  room.  From 
without  came  the  tramp  of  horses  and  then  it 
seemed  that  the  party  had  come  to  a  halt  before  the 
house  of  Ram  Singh,  her  host,  the  reputable 
merchant  who  had  had  trade  dealings  with  the 
lands  of  Vickram. 

Safa  sat  up.  An  impulse  seized  her.  She  fought 
it  for  a  couple  of  moments,  then  rose  quickly  and 
passed  from  the  room  into  another  where  there  was 


118      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

a  screen  window  projecting  above  the  roadway.  She 
went  to  it,  opened  one  of  the  hinged  squares  of  lat- 
tice work  and  looked  through. 

Below  were  various  men  mounted  and  afoot ;  pairs 
of  cheetahs  were  coupled  together  like  dogs  and 
held  on  a  leash ;  but  these  Safa,  kneeling  at  the  lat- 
tice, saw  without  seeing.  Her  eyes  were  upon  the 
central  horse  and  rider.  The  horse  was  a  satin- 
skinned  black  stallion,  rolling  a  wild  eye  and  lifting 
his  feet  restlessly.  The  man  who  held  him  in  con- 
trol, sitting  squarely  in  the  high,  gemmed  saddle, 
was  Akbar — broad  and  square  and  strong,  virile 
and  dominant.  Suddenly,  as  though  the  woman 
at  the  lattice  had  spoken  aloud  to  him,  he  looked  up. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  unveiled  before 
him  in  the  full  Durbar  he  saw  the  beauty  of  her 
face  and  her  poignant  eyes.  She  seemed  set  in  the 
square  frame  of  the  open  pane  of  lattice  work  as  in 
a  picture.  He  even  caught  the  furtive  glistening  of 
the  strung  diamonds  in  her  ears.  And  Safa,  looking 
down,  saw  all  the  passionate  and  desirous  soul  of 
the  man  more  nakedly  revealed  than  in  the  Durbar. 
And  she  saw  that  he  was  handsome. 

His  eyes  held  hers  for  a  long  moment  and  it 
seemed  to  Safa  as  though  a  thin  fiery  arrow  smote 
shudderingly  through  her.  Then,  hastily,  she  drew 
back,  shut  the  hinged  pane  hurriedly  and  went  into 
the  room  where  she  had  been.  She  was  shamed, 


THE     EFFIGY 119 

confused  in  spirit,  unable  to  handle  or  examine  that 
which  had  hold  upon  her. 

Presently  a  little  handmaiden  came  timor- 
ously to  her,  carrying  a  cage  of  gold  wire,  hung 
with  bells  containing  a  captive  bird  of  paradise.  She 
set  down  the  tinkling  cage  in  which  the  marvelous 
bird  moved  nervously  and  bowed  meekly  to  her 
mistress. 

"May  Safa,  the  most  beautiful  of  women,  accept 
as  a  slight  gift  the  most  beautiful  of  birds.  Akbar, 
Lord  of  Hindustan,  begs  that  she  will  be  present 
this  day  at  the  Bride's  Choice  of  his  daughter  Dil- 
Khusha." 

Safa  spoke  immediately :  "Say  that  I  will  come," 
she  commanded. 


Ill 

A  servant,  clad  in  dark,  badgeless  raiment,  stood 
in  a  slimy-floored  by-street,  just  wide  enough  to 
allow  the  passage  of  homing  cows,  and  knocked 
upon  a  door. 

A  shutter  slid  back  and  a  woman  peered  at  him 
through  a  little  grill.  Then  the  door  opened  and 
he  made  his  way  confidently  through  inner  darkness 
until -he  touched  the  curtain  folds  of  some  heavy 
stuff.  He  put  it  carefully  aside  and  was  in  a  room 
that  was  windowless,  lighted  solely  by  a  lamp.  A 


120      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

young  man  dressed  like  a  bridegroom  and  hand- 
some in  his  panoply  as  a  Vedic  hero-god,  stood  with 
one  hand  on  the  cross-hilt  of  the  sword  that  was 
thrust  through  his  sash.  The  servant  salaamed 
reverently. 

"Well,  Jaswant  Singh?"  said  Adhiraj  quickly. 

The  servant  held  out  a  flower  and  a  dagger  in  an 
ivory  sheath  as  he  replied : 

"The  handmaid  met  me  at  the  gate  of  the  Durbar 
court,  oh  my  master.  She  delivered  me  these  in  a 
private  place,  saying  they  were  from  her  mistress 
for  my  master.  According  to  thy  order  I  said  noth- 
ing and  we  were  unobserved." 

Adhiraj  took  the  trifles  gently. 

"Didst  thou  see  the  master-craftsman?" 

"Within  this  hour." 

"What  did  he  ask?" 

"Three  hundred  rupees." 

"Did  he  appear  satisfied?" 

"He  blessed  thy  name,  my  lord,  and  swore  by 
the  gods  that  he  was  thy  pledged  servant." 

"And  the  two  carpenters  working  under  his  in- 
struction ?" 

"They  have  received  a  hundred  rupees  apiece; 
know  nothing,  and  he  answers  for  their  discretion." 

"That  is  good.  Thou  shalt  not  regret  this  matter, 
Jaswant  Singh;  thy  wit  in  nosing  out  this  pretty 
jest  of  Akbar's  shall  cause  thy  children  and  thy 


THE    EFFIGY 121 

grandchildren  to  bless  thy  name,  for  I  will  reward 
thee  well.  Go  now.  I  will  come  out  to  thee  when 
all  is  ready." 

When  Adhiraj  was  alone  in  the  feebly  lighted 
room  he  took  up  the  rose  and  the  dagger.  The 
crushed  yellow  flower  was  faintly  odorous,  and  felt 
delightfully  cool  to  his  flushed  cheek.  An  indefinite 
scentedness,  Zenana-suggesting,  accompanied  the 
toylike  knife,  whose  ivory  case  was  roughened  by 
minute  relief  carvings  of  elephants.  These  carried 
Dil-Khusha's  message  to  his  heart. 

The  flower  was  a  symbol  and  a  reminder  of  love, 
the  flower-like  love  that  had  blossomed  magically 
for  a  moment  against  his  breast  in  the  marble  sum- 
mer-house. And  the  knife  ?  Little,  fragile  Dil-Khu- 
sha  was  the  child  of  a  Rajput  woman.  Adhiraj 
understood  the  message  of  the  knife.  Suddenly 
with  the  eyes  of  his  mind  he  saw  her — his  love — 
his  chosen  wife,  lying  dead  in  a  red  pool.  Mad- 
ness clutched  at  him.  Instantly  he  knew  what  he 
should  do.  He  would  head  his  armed  retainers, 
all  clad  in  the  saffron  garments  of  despair.  They 
would  storm  the  Palace  of  the  Moghul  and  kill  with- 
out mercy.  Surely  when  he  came  straight  from  the 
blood  and  steel  of  this  last  hopeless  fight  to  the 
shining  threshold  of  Heaven  the  Great  Ones  would 
give  her  again  into  his  arms,  pure  as  the  holy  north- 
ern snow  peaks. 


THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

Adhiraj  laid  down  the  trifles  that  had  brought  the 
girl's  mute,  tragic  message.  There  was  no  need  to 
consider  death — yet.  Was  he  not  a  bridegroom 
dressed  for  his  marriage  and  about  to  take  to  him- 
self his  bride? 

Jaswant  Singh  led  out  a  bay  stallion  from  some 
hidden  room-like  stable  into  the  squalid  street-pas- 
sage that  twisted  between  the  blind  mud  walls.  The 
beautiful  beast  whose  line  for  a  dozen  generations 
had  carried  none  less  than  Rajahs  and  the  children 
of  Rajahs  sniffed  suspiciously  through  spread  nos- 
trils, peering  this  way  and  that.  He  was  saddled 
and  the  stirrups  were  inlaid  with  gold ;  a  long  golden 
tassel  hung  upon  the  horse's  chest  and  the  saddle 
cloth  was  a  square  of  emerald-green  velvet.  Pres- 
ently the  door  with  the  grill  in  it  opened  and  Adhi- 
raj, dressed  as  an  Arab  horse  dealer,  came  out.  He 
wore  the  full,  dark,  wide-sleeved  robe  of  his  people. 
The  white  head  cloth  was  bound  with  coils  of  cam- 
el's hair,  and  he  was  apparently  bearded.  The  bay 
stallion  snorted  at  him,  veering  sideways,  but  he 
spoke  softly  and  the  horse  steadied,  staring  with 
luminous  eyes,  stretching  toward  him  a  docilely  in- 
quiring nose. 

The  single  broad  street  which,  like  a  wide  flood- 
channel,  carried  all  the  shifting,  teeming  under-life 
of  Delhi,  was  one  long,  continuous  bazaar.  In  the 


THE     EFFIGY  123 

open  twin  rows  of  narrow  awning-darkened  shops, 
sandalwood,  sacred  pictures,  moonstones,  European 
mirrors,  betel  nuts,  Benares  brass,  ambergris,  ar- 
mor and  the  hides  of  tigers,  deer  and  Himalayan 
foxes  could  be  bought.  Diseased  beggars,  whose 
skins  were  blotched  with  a  ghastly  pinkish  discolora- 
tion, rattled  begging  bowls  to  attract  charity;  men 
whose  legs  were  swollen  to  a  monstrous  thickness 
with  elephantiasis  went  stoically  about  their  affairs; 
slate-plumaged  pigeons  fluttered,  indifferent  to  the 
clamor;  humped  heifers  meandered  from  shop  to 
shop,  thrusting  dewy  muzzles  among  the  wares. 
Women  with  the  crimson  marriage  mark  upon  their 
foreheads,  children,  men  and  milch  cows  made  up  a 
fluent,  restless  multitude. 

Skirting  the  stacked  earthenware  of  a  pot  seller, 
stretching  eager,  twitching  lips  toward  the  open 
corn  sacks  of  a  grain  merchant,  daintily  avoiding 
cripples  and  children,  stepped  a  bay  stallion,  beauti- 
fully bred,  with  mane  and  tail  of  jet.  A  servant  led 
him,  and  at  the  stirrup  walked  an  Arab  horse  dealer. 
There  was  nothing  about  the  trio  to  arrest  atten- 
tion save  the  excellence  of  the  horse. 

Up  the  long  street  of  shops  went  the  two  men 
leading  the  stallion,  gravely  and  steadily,  across  the 
great  seething  square  before  the  palace,  up  to  the 
stately  gateway  of  the  elephants.  A  guard  of  Raj- 
puts commanded  by  a  Rajput  Rajah  was  stationed 


THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

at  the  gate,  but  none  were  barred  from  entering. 
The  servant  and  the  horse  and  the  horse  dealer 
passed  in  beneath  the  lofty  marble  arch.  Here  were 
ranged  the  stalls  and  workshops  of  the  goldsmiths, 
silversmiths,  jewelers,  tailors,  shoemakers  and  dress- 
makers employed  by  the  palace  folk  and  the  Zenana. 
The  trio  passed  up  for  some  little  distance  between 
these  palace  shops,  then  the  servant  checked  the 
'horse  a  moment,  looked  first  at  the  dealer,  then 
toward  the  mouth  of  a  passageway  opening  between 
two  stalls.  The  Arab  stepped  aside  to  the  passage 
opening  and  the  horse  and  the  servant  passed  on, 
heading  for  the  Durbar  court,  where  were  many 
other  saddled  horses  held  by  liveried  grooms. 

It  was  excessively  hot.  The  sweat  stood  like 
large  drops  of  water  on  the  forehead  of  the  jeweler 
examining  a  flawed  emerald  in  the  opposite  stall. 
From  the  farther  end  of  the  passageway  came  the 
sound  of  hammering.  Everywhere  the  stir  of  prep- 
aration could  be  felt  rather  than  seen.  The  Arab 
horse  dealer  sat  down  upon  a  bench  by  the  head  of 
a  passage.  His  white  head  cloth  fell  low,  almost 
to  his  eyelids,  and  the  lower  part  of  his  face  was 
lost  in  a  plentiful  beard. 

Old  Girbur  and  Mulraz,  the  ancient  and  acid 
palace  oracle,  barely  noticed  a  muffled  Arab  sitting 
in  the  shadow  within  ten  feet  of  them.  It  was  past 
noon.  The  jewel  merchant  had  long  ago  laid  the 


THE     EFFIGY 125 

defective  emerald  on  one  side  and  was  now  polish- 
ing a  garnet.  Girbur  grunted. 

"There's  trouble  here,"  he  said. 

"There's  trouble  everywhere,"  snapped  the  phil- 
osopher. 

"Yea,  but  as  thou  knowest,  Mulraz,  within  an 
hour  or  less  the  Peerless  One  will  give  his  daughter, 
Dil-Khusha,  her  Bride's  Choice  before  the  full  Dur- 
bar." 

"Why  seest  thou  trouble  in  that?  Girls  must 
have  husbands  and  the  world  more  brats." 

"Because  it  is  no  choice.  The  Peerless  One  hath 
preordained  that  she  is  to  wed  this  Vickram  boy. 
The  girl's  mother  was  a  Rajput;  she  is  infatuated 
with  young  Adhiraj.  My  friend,  she  will  kill  her- 
self before  the  night." 

"Well,  one  woman  more  or  less  is  a  matter  of  no 
account." 

This  was  disheartening.  Presently  Girbur  ven- 
tured almost  apologetically :  "This  Adhiraj  is  pow- 
erful and  wealthy,  Mulraz.  He  may  stake  much  to 
gain  the  girl." 

"He's  a  fool,"  said  the  other  shortly,  "and  fools 
will  ever  strive  to  be  still  greater  fools." 

"Which  they  succeed  in  being?" 

"No,  for  those  who'd  be  more  foolish  than  they 
are  become  lesser  fools." 


126      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

A  man  coming  from  the  passageway  salaamed  be- 
fore them.  He  spoke  to  Girbur. 

"Sir,  the  work  is  completed.  Thy  servant  trusts 
that  his  masters  will  find  it  good." 

"That  is  well.  I  will  inspect  it,  Mahdu,  and  then 
send  some  men  to  bear  it  to  the  Durbar  hall."  He 
turned  to  the  philosopher,  smiling  a  little  in  the 
thicket  of  his  stiff  gray  whiskers.  "Come,  Mulraz, 
and  I  will  show  thee  a  subject  for  thy  wit."  Pass- 
ing within  an  arm-length  of  the  unmoving,  head- 
sunken  Arab,  the  artisan,  the  old  servant  of  Akbar 
and  the  jaundiced  court  oracle  went  down  the  un- 
roofed passage.  It  ended  in  a  little  yard  shut  in 
by  blind  walls.  The  place  was  littered  with  wood 
shavings,  and  in  the  center  stood  a  painted  life-size 
wooden  image.  The  gaudy  thing  was  a  grotesque 
and  hideously  exaggerated  caricature  of  a  young 
man,  and  on  the  breast  a  gilt  inscription  read  "Ra- 
ijah  Adhiraj."  A  group  of  palace  servants  and 
hangers-on  were  gathered  round  it,  relishing  the 
glaring  wooden  insult  exceedingly. 

Girbur,  halting,  stared  at  the  effigy.  Then  a 
grunt  of  laughter  shook  him. 

"Ho,  Mulraz !  Is  not  this  a  work  of  skill  ?  See 
how  he  stands — and  the  head  so  poised  that  it 
might  topple  off  at  the  least  breath.  Yea,  and  so 
it  will  if  he  should  show  himself  within  the  city." 

Mulraz  eyed  the  figure  appraisingly. 


THE    EFFIGY 127 

"Umph.  If  the  Creator  hath  not  endowed  our 
enemies  with  sufficient  hideousness  to  satisfy  our 
spite  we  remedy  the  omission  ourselves,  so  it  is  all 
one.  This  may  not  be  an  over  careful  copy  of  the 
countenance  which  God — who  alone  is  Great ! — hath 
bestowed  upon  our  brother  Adhiraj,  but  Akbar  will 
doubtless  reward  the  artist." 

At  the  mention  of  Akbar  the  appreciative  group 
about  the  effigy — becoming  also  aware  of  the  pres- 
ence of  Akbar's  trusted  servant — were  stimulated  to 
loud  and  vehement  loyalty. 

"Behold  Rajah  Adhiraj  enthroned  in  state!" 
squeaked  a  pot-bellied  youngster,  mother-naked  save 
for  a  loin  cloth.  "Ohoo !  Thus  do  I  greet  his  glor- 
ious majesty!" 

He  bent  double  in  an  exaggerated  salaam  and 
then  impudently  protruded  his  tongue  after  the  man- 
ner of  small  boys. 

"This  fellow  defied  Akbar,  the  Peerless  One!" 
proclaimed  a  bearded  water-carrier. 

"He  wished  to  wed  the  palace  diamond,  Dil-Khu- 
sha,"  piped  another  voice.  "Ho !  He  looks  a  pretty 
figure  for  a  bridegroom,  brothers !  He'd  be  fitter  to 
scare  off  the  crows." 

A  cackle  of  laughter  came  at  the  heels  of  this 
saying. 

"That  for  all  enemies  of  the  Peerless  One !"  said 
a  filthy  casteless  nondescript  as  he  spat  at  the  effigy. 


128      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

When  the  ragged  gathering  of  loyalists  had  strag- 
gled off  Mulraz  tapped  the  figure  with  his  ebony 
staff. 

"Well,  Rajah  Adhiraj,  what  sayest  thou?  I  see 
no  sign  in  thee  of  shame,  anger  or  resentment.  Pah ! 
What  child's  talk  to  insult  the  absent  and  jeer  at  a 
painted  post.  If  Adhiraj  in  the  wood  could  have 
become  Adhiraj  in  the  flesh  these  swine  would  have 
squealed  to  a  different  tune." 

"Yes,"  growled  Girbur.  "A  knife  in  the  breast 
is  more  to  the  purpose  than  all  that  was  ever  spoken 
against  an  absent  man." 

"I  do  not  deny  that  it  would  give  more  pain/' 
assented  the  philosopher  acidly. 

When  the  old  king's  servant  and  his  companion 
had  gone  by  him,  setting  their  faces  to  the  Durbar 
hall,  the  Arab  horse-dealer  stood  up. 

A  man  came  carefully  along  the  passageway.  He 
was  the  master-craftsman.  He  looked  at  the  Arab 
and  turned  back.  After  a  slight  pause  the  horse 
dealer  followed  him  quickly. 

The  passage  extended  into  the  little  blind  yard, 
so  that  the  place  was  hidden  from  all  save  the  scav- 
enging hawks  that  alighted  on  the  low  roofs  round 
about.  The  craftsman  was  waiting  for  the  Arab 
at  the  threshold  of  the  yard.  He  seemed  afraid. 

"All  is  well,  my  master,"  he  said  huskily  and 
Hurriedly.  "Do  thou  enter  the  image  while  I  watch 


THE     EFFIGY 129 

and  then  I  will  show  thee  what  is  needful.  Pres- 
ently the  servants  of  the  Great  One  will  be  here." 

The  seeming  Arab  nodded.  Then  immediately 
the  dark  robe,  the  head  cloth,  the  camel's  hair  and 
the  generous  beard  were  stripped  swiftly  from  him 
and  a  young  Rajput,  beardless  and  clad  like  a  bride- 
groom, faced  the  distorted  semi-human  effigy. 

A  gust  of  bitter  anger  swept  over  young  Adhiraj 
as  he  regarded  the  grinning  wide-mouth  monstros- 
ity that  was  labeled  with  his  own  name.  Then  he 
smiled  a  little  with  set  lips  and  went  quickly  up  to 
the  thing.  It  was  hollow,  as  he  had  known  that  it 
would  be,  and  he  got  easily  into  the  narrow  niche. 
The  nostrils  were  minutely  pierced  to  admit  air,  as 
were  the  eyeballs  also,  so  he  could  see  a  little  from 
within.  Now  the  man  who  had  kept  watch  came 
over  to  the  effigy  and  hastily  fitted  its  hollowed  back 
to  the  tall  wooden  shell,  securing  the  two  shaped 
halves  together  cunningly,  explaining  to  the  en- 
closed young  man  the  manner  in  which  they  might 
be  broken  instantly  apart.  Then  he  stood  aside 
from  the  figure.  Upright  upon  a  low  wooden  bloek 
to  which  it  was  firmly  affixed  the  image  grinned  va- 
cantly, gaudily  painted  in  white,  blue,  green  and  red, 
with  touches  of  gilt  and  silver.  The  master-crafts- 
man smiled  nervously,  rubbing  his  scantily-bearded 
chin.  Then,  seeing  the  beard  and  clothing  of  the 
horse  dealer  lying  among  the  shavings,  he  pounced 


130      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

i 

upon  them,  gathered  them  up  hastily  and  hid  them 
beneath  a  cotton  coverlet  left  by  some  out-of-doors 
sleeper.  He  approached  the  effigy  again. 

"Can  my  master  breathe  freely?"  he  asked  in  a 
low  voice.  A  muffled  "yes"  came  from  within  the 
image. 

When  the  two  sturdy  servants  arrived,  bare 
legged,  with  small  pearls  in  their  ears  and  clothed 
in  scarlet  cloth  tunics,  he  was  standing  by  the 
mound  of  cotton  coverlet,  moistening  his  lips. 

One  of  the  men,  stooping,  endeavored  to  move 
the  figure.  He  straightened  himself,  grunting. 

"Wah!  It  is  wondrous  weighty  for  a  paltry 
image." 

"Thou  art  weak,  brother.  I  will  show  thee  that 
it  is  but  a  fit  load  for  a  man." 

The  other  stooped  also  and  attempted  to  lift  the 
thing  bodily,  but  could  not. 

"Ough!  It  hath  bowels  of  iron."  They  both 
looked  inquiringly  at  the  master-craftsman.  He 
licked  his  lips,  came  a  little  forward  and  explained 
glibly: 

"My  brothers,  the  heaviness  of  this  image  is  to 
the  purpose  of  the  design.  Rajah  Adhiraj — may 
his  mouth  be  filled  with  dust! — is  weighed  down 
with  woes  immovable,  therefore  it  is  but  just  that 
his  effigy  should  be  weighty  also." 

The  servants  nodded.    Between  them,  with  much 


THE     EFFIGY 181 

effort,  they  hoisted  the  figure  upon  their  shoulders 
and,  grunting  and  groaning,  padded  naked-footed 
out  of  the  yard. 

IV 

A  great  square  of  carpet,  mottled  sumptuously  in 
peacock-blue  and  ruby-red,  had  been  laid  upon  the 
white  marble  floor  before  the  steps  of  the  judgment 
seat,  and  upon  this  the  nautch  girls  danced.  Before 
them  and  above  them  sat  the  Lord  of  Life  and 
Death;  behind  were  ranged  from  side  to  side  of 
the  wide  hall  the  flower  of  the  grandees  of  Upper 
India ;  over  them  arched  the  hollow  marble  roof  like 
the  cold  inverted  calix  of  a  Titan  lily;  on  either 
side  squatted  the  musicians.  There  were  twenty 
dancers,  arranged  in  two  rows  of  ten.  They  wore 
anklets  of  clustered  bells,  vari-colored  skirts  edged 
with  tinsel,  and  were  naked  from  the  waist  upward 
save  for  a  pair  of  silver  breast-plates  finished  with 
tiny  knobs  of  pink  coral.  The  tom-toms  thumped 
and  thudded;  fluting  pipes  quavered  suggestively, 
like  the  wailing  of  a  wind  in  the  forest;  harp-like 
instruments  twanged  mellowly.  The  dancers  wrig- 
gled their  slim  bodies  sinuously;  they  shuffled  their 
feet  and  their  myriad  ankle  bells  shook  softly  in 
unison;  they  swayed  like  head-heavy  flowers  in  a 
southern  wind. 


132      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

Safa,  seated  unveiled  at  the  right  hand  of  Akbar, 
seemed  to  move  in  a  kind  of  waking  dream.  The 
music;  the  swaying  figures;  the  ranked  kings  and 
princes  were  dream-like,  but  the  dream  appeared 
right  and  fitting,  occasioning  no  wonder.  She  and 
the  man  beside  her  were  being  fanned  with  fans  of 
peacock  feathers,  for  it  was  stifling  hot,  and  that 
also  seemed  part  of  the  stately  and  bewildering 
dream.  Yet,  dominating  all  her  consciousness,  was 
the  powerful,  purposeful  and  aggressively  masculine 
personality  so  near  to  her.  It  seemed  to  over- 
shadow, envelop  and  almost  overwhelm  her.  Some- 
times when  he  turned  a  little  toward  her  she  felt 
as  though  she  were  holding  at  arm's  length  a 
magnificent,  irresistible  and  headlong  animal. 
'But  it  was  taking  the  last  ounce  of  her  strength 
to  do  so.  She  was  afraid,  yet  she  did  not 
wish  that  she  had  remained  at  the  house  of  the 
merchant — away  from  the  boy — and  away  from 
him. 

One  other  thing  in  the  Durbar  drew  her  eyes 
and  her  thought.  It  was  a  hideous  painted  wooden 
image,  as  large  as  life,  that  was  set  to  face  the  Pea- 
cock Throne,  at  the  center  of  the  great  hall.  She 
knew  what  it  was,  and  as  one  looks  and  looks  again 
at  the  black  heart  of  the  coming  storm  rushing  up 
from  the  outer  limit  of  a  serene  sky,  so  Safa 
watched  the  wooden  figure.  Subtly  she  felt  that 


THE     EFFIGY 133 

the  thing  was  the  symbol  of  some  approaching  cli- 
max. 

Akbar,  enthroned,  splendid,  his  sword  across  his 
knees,  was  uplifted  by  a  hot,  eager  triumph.  On  his 
left,  languidly  licking  its  paws,  lay  the  half-grown 
tiger  that  obeyed  his  voice.  On  his  right  sat  the 
woman  he  desired,  whose  face  he  had  sought  for 
seven  days.  She  had  come;  she  should  remain.  In 
a  few  hours  she  would  surrender  to  him — she  must 
— and  the  coming  night  would  be  sweet  with  her 
kisses.  The  semi-nude  nautch  girls  posturing  on 
the  square  of  carpet  were  his  to  use  as  he  chose, 
but  they  were  only  some  of  a  great  herded  group 
of  women  subject  utterly  to  his  will  and  desire,  un- 
resisting, inviting  and  satiating.  They  woke  no 
sensation  within  him,  only  the  reflected  thought  of 
her.  And  the  drums  of  the  musicians  sounded  like 
the  quick,  heavy  throbbing  of  a  passionate  pulse. 
The  sleepy,  blackened  eyes  of  the  dancers  were 
lifted  to  him  with  a  simulated  amorousness  that 
arose  partly  from  habit  and  partly  from  the  charac- 
ter of  the  dance.  Akbar  turned  to  Safa. 

"These  girls  have  been  chosen  more  carefully 
than  precious  stones  are  selected  for  a  necklace,  yet 
they  are  not  fit  to  prostrate  before  thee,"  he  said  in 
a  low,  deep  voice. 

"My  lord  is  pleased  to  judge  too  favorably."  Al- 
ways the  steady  putting  aside  of  the  flattering 


134      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

phrase  with  a  voice  sweet  and  cool  as  milk  chilled 
with  snow.  Well,  she  might  turn  aside  the  point 
of  his  speech  for  a  little  while,  but  in  another  hour, 
or  at  the  most  two,  his  will  should  be  made  plain 
to  her.  A  surge  of  impatience  rose  in  him  at  the 
ceremony  that  had  not  yet  begun. 

The  dance  ended,  the  music  was  silenced,  the  flar- 
ing nautch  girls  vanished.  The  musicians  got  up 
and  squatted  in  a  cluster  on  the  carpet  square.  Girl 
slaves  carrying  heaped  trays  went  back  and  forth 
before  the  Peacock  Throne,  throwing  handfuls  of 
marigold  heads,  the  crude,  vivid,  golden,  good-luck 
flower,  upon  the  marble  floor.  Abul  Fazl,  the  Vi- 
zier, stationed  at  the  left  of  the  throne,  came  a  little 
forward,  cleared  his  throat  and  began  to  read  from 
a  scroll  in  a  loud  voice: 

"This  is  the  Bride's  Choice  of  Dil-Khusha,  fairest 
daughter  of  Akbar,  who  is  the  wisest  and  greatest 
monarch  of  all  Hind.  She  is  the  most  exquisite 
jewel  in  the  possession  of  the  Peerless  One,  her 
beauty  being  of  such  potency  that  the  trees  break 
into  blossom  at  her  approach  and  wither  when  she 
averteth  her  countenance.  She  hath  a  face  like  the 
moon  when  at  the  fullness  of  its  luster;  her  joined 
eyebrows  resemble  a  bended  bow,  her  gaze  is  more 
languishing  than  that  of  a  gazelle  and  more  potent 
than  the  incantations  of  enchanters.  Her  neck  is 
the  neck  of  a  dove  and  her  teeth  are  like  the  grains 


THE     EFFIGY 135 

of  pomegranate.  Her  lips  are  of  the  redness  of 
coral  and  her  complexion  is  fairer  than  the  flowers 
of  the  jasmine.  Her  feet  and  hands  are  like  softest 
blossoms,  her  voice  is  like  the  murmuring  of  pig- 
eons, and  the  grace  of  her  movements  may  be  com- 
pared to  the  gliding  of  a  swan.  Therefore  ye  are 
commanded  by  Akbar,  King  of  the  World,  to  sub- 
mit yourselves  and  all  your  possessions,  so  that  she 
may  choose  from  among  ye  he  that  shall  be  her 
bridegroom."  He  paused  to  clear  his  throat  again. 
Akbar  made  a  sudden  arresting  gesture. 

"Stay,"  he  said  abruptly.  "There  is  one  lacking 
here  who  owes  allegiance  to  me.  Where  is  the 
Vickram?  Have  any  seen  him?  Speak,  some  of 
you!" 

The  Jemadar  came  forward  salaaming:  "Oh, 
Great  One,  he  is  within  the  palace.  I  saw  him  not 
an  hour  since." 

"Then  have  him  dragged  hither — in  chains  if  he 
will  not  come  with  any  better  grace." 

The  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  was  in  no  nuptial 
humor.  He  had  spoken.  Kama  Deva  should  wed 
his  daughter,  even  though  it  were  at  the  point  of  a 
drawn  sword.  As  the  captain  salaamed  his  obedi- 
ence there  was  a  slight,  soft  movement  on  Akbar's 
right.  Safa  spoke  quietly. 

"Hear  me,  oh  king.  At  dusk  seven  days  ago, 
when  my  face  was  turned  from  Delhi,  a  tiger  at- 


136      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

tacked  my  little  bearers,  who  fled.  This  young 
man,  riding  alone  in  the  jungle,  heard  its  roaring, 
and,  armed  only  with  arrows,  killed  it  single-handed. 
He  saved  my  life,  for  the  beast  was  almost  upon 
me." 

Akbar  turned  sharply  upon  her,  looking  hungrily 
— almost  fiercely — into  her  raised  eyes. 

"What!  This  boy  hath  saved  thy  life?  By  my 
beard!  I  owe  him  gratitude.  Jemadar,  seek  the 
young  man  as  I  have  instructed  thee,  but  give  him 
greeting  from  me  and  bring  him  hither  with  re- 
spect." 

He  bent  nearer  to  her  and  spoke  caressingly : 
"As  God  liveth,  if  the  light  of  thy  life  had  been 
extinguished  in  such  a  manner  the  fall  of  the  sun 
from  heaven  would  have  appeared  as  a  lesser  disas- 
ter in  my  sight !" 

Safa  made  no  answer.  As  she  sat  upon  the  ex- 
quisite ivory  throne-seat  prepared  for  her,  with  a 
little  round  fringed  canopy  of  grass-green  silk  above 
her  head  and  the  peacock-feather  fans  plying,  she 
was  athrill  with  fear,  expectancy  and  the  foreknowl- 
edge of  coming  stress. 

Presently  the  ranks  of  the  kings  and  captains  di- 
vided and  a  young  man,  followed  by  the  Jemadar, 
came  straight  across  to  the  steps  of  the  place  of 
judgment  and  stood  with  folded  arms,  looking  stead- 
ily up  to  the  one  seated  on  the  Peacock  Throne. 


THE     EFFIGY 137 

He  was  richly  clad,  without  jewels,  but  he  wore 
his  silver-tufted  turban  with  the  air  of  a  young,  re- 
sentful god.  This  was  the  first  time  that  Kama 
Deva  had  entered  the  Durbar  Hall  since  the  day  on 
which  he  had  been  condemned  to  die.  Since  that 
day  he  had  seen  nothing  of  the  Lord  of  Life  and 
Death  save  from  a  distance.  Chafing  and  fretting, 
he  slept  and  ate  beneath  the  roof  of  the  Moham- 
medan, waiting  for  the  favorable  time  to  secure  his 
long-meditated  revenge.  Akbar  spoke  smoothly: 
"We  greet  thee,  son  of  Vickram.  Courage  is  the 
noblest  ornament  a  man  may  wear,  and  a  brave  man 
deserves  much  honor.  It  hath  been  related  to  us 
how  thou  didst  slay  a  tiger,  unaided  and  armed  only 
with  arrows,  and  so  preserved  one  whose  life  is 
more  precious  to  us  than  our  own.  For  this  deed 
thou  hast  our  thanks.  .  .  .  Well,  sir,  why  this  de- 
lay? When  thou  art  kneeling  as  befits  thee  I  will 
speak  my  favors." 

Kama  Deva  remained  upright,  motionless,  look- 
ing straight  at  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death. 

Akbar  rose  suddenly  to  his  feet,  furious.  The 
feather  fans  stopped  swaying  in  the  tenseness  of 
the  moment. 

"Dost  thou  hear  me?  Down  on  thy  knees — 
down  on  thy  knees,  I  say!" 

"I  cannot  bend  my  knee  to  thee."  Kama  Deva 
spoke  in  a  loud  voice,  still  standing  with  folded 


138      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

arms.  Knowingly  he  was  treading  on  the  very 
verge  of  death.  Perhaps  his  hour  had  come  and 
he  was  to  find  the  fulfilment  of  his  life  there  upon 
the  steps  of  the  Peacock  Throne,  before  all  Upper 
India.  When  the  Mohammedan  raised  his  hand  to 
summon  guards  then  he,  Kama  Deva,  would  act 
quickly,  for  there  was  a  dagger  at  his  belt.  The 
crowded  Durbar  was  like  one  listening  man. 

"Cannot?"  thundered  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death. 
"That  word  hath  cost  better  lives  than  thine,  thou 
yelping  cub !  For  the  last  time,  down  on  thy  knees !" 
As  he  stood  he  gripped  the  golden  elephant  heads 
in  which  the  arms  of  the  throne  seat  terminated. 
Suddenly  a  hand  was  laid  upon  his,  clutchingly,  ur- 
gently; a  hand  light,  strong  and  cool  as  a  flower. 

"Oh  King,  be  just!  Be  not  angered  with  him. 
It  is  plain  to  see  that  he  is  badly  hurt  and  speaketh 
truth  when  he  sayeth  he  cannot  bend  his  knee." 

Akbar  turned  slightly.  The  cool  hand  still 
clutched  his  own;  two  eyes,  like  a  magical  summer 
midnight,  appealed  to  his.  The  excuse  was  believ- 
able enough;  very  possibly  the  boy  was  really  hurt 
.  .  .  and  she  desired  that  he  should  go  unpunished. 

"It  is  well.  I  spoke  in  haste  and  thou  art  ex- 
cused. Son  of  Vickram,  take  thy  place  among  those 
of  thy  rank."  And  then  to  Abul  Fazl :  "Let  the 
ceremony  proceed." 

He  bent  toward  her  again.     "Thou  seest  I  can 


THE     EFFIGY  139 

refuse  thee  nothing.  Wilt  thou  refuse  my  wishes, 
Safa?" 

"Oh,  King ;  how  should  such  as  I  minister  to  thee 
in  thy  greatness?  Indeed,  I  ...  I  am  most  grate- 
ful." 

As  Kama  Deva,  excessively  astonished,  took  his 
place  stiffly  among  the  rest  the  eyes  of  one  there 
followed  him  yearningly,  fearfully,  and  a  woman's 
heart  cried  out  for  the  stately,  comely  boy.  Once 
again  she  had  held  death  from  him,  but  he  sought 
death  as  other  boys  sought  women,  and  her  arm 
was  weakening.  And  as  she  weakened  the  man 
beside  her  seemed  to  grow  in  strength. 

At  a  sign  from  Abul  Fazl  the  music  broke  out 
again — drum,  pipe  and  stringed  instrument.  Im- 
mediately hidden  servants  opened  the  cages  which 
they  held  and  shook  out  a  dozen  white,  gem-eyed 
pigeons,  which  a  moment  later  were  flying  and  flut- 
tering confusedly  beneath  the  arch-divided  roof.  A 
group  of  pretty  little  Hindu  girls,  with  their  hair 
twisted  up  in  plaited  coils  at  the  back  of  their  small 
heads,  ran  into  the  Durbar,  scattering  pink  and 
cream  rosebuds  upon  the  strewn  marigolds.  Then 
others  throwing  right  and  left  gorgeous  flowers  of 
gold  and  silver.  Then  came  the  bride. 

Dil-Khusha  walked  slowly.  She  was  unveiled 
and  dressed  in  clinging,  gold  be-spangled  muslin. 
Her  coiled  hair  was  adorned  with  clustered  rose- 


140      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

buds  and  a  broad  headband  of  pearls  was  bound 
across  her  forehead.  Her  large  eyes,  lovely  and 
terrified  as  a  deer's,  were  artificially  darkened  and 
the  soles  of  her  bare  feet  were  stained  ruddy  with 
henna.  Upon  her  little  feet,  as  upon  her  hands, 
were  rich  rings.  She  went  forward  to  the  steps  of 
the  Peacock  Throne  and  bent  before  her  father. 
She  stood  dazed  and  passive;  possessed  by  a  miser- 
able despair.  There  was  no  help,  and  in  a  few 
hours  she  must  take  her  own  life.  She  could  feel 
the  thin  coldness  of  the  little  knife  as  it  lay  against 
her  flesh.  She  wished  to  weep,  to  get  away  from 
this  thronged,  silent,  stately  place.  She  did  not 
clearly  know  what  she  should  do. 

Abul  Fazl,  descending  pompously  from  his  sta- 
tion beside  the  Peacock  Throne,  now  addressed  her : 

"Oh  Princess,  thine  are  the  jewels  of  joy  to  wear 
upon  the  garments  of  thy  maidenhood.  Let  this  be 
the  token  of  thy  love  and  bestow  it  where  thy  heart 
doth  most  incline." 

Mechanically  Dil-Khusha  took  the  marigold 
wreath  which  he  offered  her  and  words  which  she 
had  learnt  came  mechanically  to  her  mouth.  She 
turned  toward  the  assembled  line  of  men. 

"By  my  most  sacred  privilege  I  choose  as  a  hus- 
band him  about  whose  neck  I  shall  place  this  wreath, 
for  by  this  token  ye  may  know  that  my  heart  is 
given." 

Leaving  her  place  by  the  steps  of  the  throne  she 


THE     EFFIGY 141 

walked  toward  them,  moving  passively,  almost 
woodenly;  the  girls  ranged  themselves  in  two  lines, 
one  on  the  right  and  the  other  on  the  left  of  the 
place  of  judgment.  The  music  became  shriller  and 
noisier.  Two  pigeons  still  fluttered  distractedly  be- 
neath the  roof.  Under  her  feet  the  strewn  flowers 
were  pleasantly  and  blandly  cool,  with  here  and  there 
a  false  flower  of  gold  or  silver  like  a  large,  irregu- 
lar pebble.  A  faint,  sweet  flower  smell  rose  from 
the  crushed  petals.  A  long  waiting  line  of  men 
confronted  her;  their  fiercely  bearded  faces  were 
brown  as  a  nut;  their  thin,  ancient  beards  were 
stained  red-golden  with  henna;  chains  of  fabulous 
jewels,  rough-cut,  unpolished,  looking  less  than 
tinted  glass,  were  draped  upon  them ;  and  sashes  of 
silk  muslin  were  swathed  about  their  waists,  broad 
and  stalwart  as  the  trunks  of  trees.  She  saw  all 
these  things  dazedly,  vaguely  hating  them.  A 
silver-tufted  turban  and  a  young,  beardless  face 
caught  her  eye — the  Vickram.  In  a  few  moments 
she  would  have  to  place  the  wreath  about  his  neck 
as  had  been  ordained.  .  .  .  What  was  that?  It 
was  a  gaudy  statue,  grotesque,  grinning.  She  had 
not  noticed  it  before.  There  was  some  word 
written  upon  its  breast  in  gilt  letters.  .  .  .  Oh 
God! 

Dil-Khusha  gave  a  little  strangled  scream  and 
stopped.  Several  of  the  girls  started  to  run  toward 
her,  but  were  checked  by  Akbar's  voice. 


THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

"What!  Thou  dost  not  like  thy  lover's  image? 
Well,  perhaps  it  may  serve  to  cure  thy  disobedient 
infatuation.  Proceed." 

Dil-Khusha,  almost  hysterical,  half  turned  toward 
her  father. 

"I  cannot!  I  cannot!  Take  it  away.  I  cannot 
look  at  it.  Take  it  away,  or  else  I  shall  go  mad !" 
She  might  as  well  have  appealed  to  a  statue  of  steel. 

"Go  on — go  on,  I  say!"  And  the  command  was 
hard  with  anger. 

Mechanically  she  took  a  hesitating  step  forward, 
obeying.  The  hideous  figure  held  her  eyes.  She 
could  not  look  away  from  it.  Suddenly  an  utterly 
reckless,  desperate  determination  took  hold  of  her, 
filling  her  with  a  sort  of  joy.  She  was  no  spiritless 
puppet,  but  a  Rajput  woman,  with  her  love  wholly 
given.  They  should  all  see. 

"By  my  most  sacred  privilege  I  choose  as  a  hus- 
band him  about  whose  neck  I  shall  place  this  wreath 
.  .  .  '  Her  voice  was  high  and  a  little  strained. 
As  the  music  shrilled  and  shrieked  in  an  expectant 
climax  she  ran  across  the  flower-scattered  pavement, 
in  her  gold-bespangled  muslin,  climbed  the  low  ped- 
estal and  flung  the  marigold  wreath  about  the  neck 
of  the  staring  wooden  effigy.  "Let  this  be  the  token 
that  my  heart  is  yielded  to  thee,  and  thee  only — 
my  heart's  beloved !" 

And  then  she  clung  to  the  image,  trembling,  with 


THE     EFFIGY 143 

closed  eyes  and  both  arms  clasped  about  its  neck. 
The  music  stopped.  There  was  a  rustle  and  a  mur- 
mur— astonishment  made  audible.  The  two  rows 
of  girls  stared  with  eyes  round  as  black  grapes.  But 
Akbar,  dangerous  now  as  any  maddened,  savage 
animal,  rose  instantly. 

,  "Then  may  God  deal  with  the  man  thou  lovest 
as  I  deal  with  his  effigy!"  he  thundered. 

He  was  coming  down  from  the  Peacock  Throne, 
swiftly,  blind  with  anger,  gripping  the  naked  sword 
that  lay  always  across  his  knees.  This  was  the 
Akbar  that  feared  neither  God,  nor  man,  nor 
woman,  nor  devil,  nor  the  rogue  elephant  who  had 
stamped  the  life  out  of  his  driver.  A  quiver  rip- 
pled across  the  Durbar  as  men  fell  back  a  step  be- 
fore his  presence  and  his  furious  anger.  The  long, 
bare  sword  flashed  up  before  the  effigy  and  it 
seemed  as  though  he  would  cleave  the  statue  with 
his  daughter  clinging  to  it  and  spatter  the  wooden 
mockery  of  her  lover  with  her  warm  blood.  But  in 
that  instant  a  miracle  occurred. 

The  effigy  broke  suddenly  apart,  falling  to  right 
and  left  in  two  halves,  and  upon  the  pedestal  stood 
a  young  man,  tall,  splendid,  lithe  and  close  knit  as 
a  leopard.  At  his  side  hung  a  sword,  its  cross-hilt 
rough  with  diamonds,  a  twist  of  golden  silk  was 
bound  about  his  brows — it  was  Rajah  Adhiraj,  him- 
self, in  the  flesh.  From  the  upper  end  of  the  Durbar 


144      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

came  a  girl's  scream,  but  he  stood  so  only  for  the 
space  of  a  moment.  Then  he  stepped  down  quickly 
and  Dil-Khusha,  dazed  utterly  by  the  falling  of  the 
figure,  sick,  dizzy  and  swaying  on  the  verge  of  un- 
consciousness, was  caught  and  drawn  against  a 
man's  breast  and  held  there  tightly.  Then  she  un- 
derstood that  the  impossible  had  happened  and  clung 
to  him,  fearing  nothing.  The  Durbar  Hall  had 
grown  strangely  gloomy  and  the  hot  air  had  be- 
come tense  as  a  harpstring. 

"The  choice  is  made.  Naught  can  undo  it  now. 
The  bride  is  mine — forever  and  ever  mine." 

As  Adhiraj  spoke  there  came  a  dry  roll  of  far- 
off  thunder  and  the  darkness  seemed  to  deepen.  At 
Akbar's  elbow  and  a  little  behind  him  stood  Safa, 
like  a  restraining  spirit.  No  one  had  seen  her  leave 
her  place  beside  the  Peacock  Throne.  As  the  long 
sword  flashed  up  again — to  kill,  she  caught  his  arm 
and  hand,  swift,  strong  and  supple,  and  with  the 
suddenness  of  the  effort  wrested  it  from  him.  When 
he  turned,  furious,  and  saw  her,  she  was  standing 
at  the  center  of  the  cleared  space  holding  the  sword 
above  her  head.  The  slave  girls,  the  musicians, 
the  kings  and  princes,  his  daughter,  her  lover  and 
himself — they  were  all  ringed  about  her  in  a  great 
circle.  The  unnatural  darkness  was  heavy  in  the 
vast  cavern-like  place  and  the  whiteness  of  the  mar- 
ble seemed  ghastly  and  cold.  Then  she  was  speak- 


THE     EFFIGY  145 

ing  and  her  raised  voice,  rich  and  high,  carried 
from  end  to  end  of  the  Durbar. 

"Behold  the  sword  of  Akbar.  It  hath  won  glory 
and  power.  It  rules  all  Hind,  and  serves  king- 
doms like  the  bloodless  knife  wherewith  the  gar- 
dener prunes  the  fruit-bearing  tree  that  it  may  yield 
him  a  fuller  fruitfulness.  No  king  hath  shed  the 
blood  of  man  to  greater  ends,  for  Akbar  fights  for 
peace,  not  for  strife,  which  creates  hatred  and  last- 
ing bitterness." 

Again  came  the  long  roll  of  thunder,  nearer  now 
and  louder.  The  marble  walls  and  pillars  quivered 
to  it  like  the  strings  of  a  lute.  The  tension  in  the 
gasping  air  was  as  painful  as  the  strain  of  a  cord 
tightened  almost  to  the  snapping  point.  Safa,  feel- 
ing within  herself  the  rising  of  a  strange  tingling 
tide  of  power,  knew  that  the  indefinable,  magnetic 
force  always  latent  in  her  was  awake  and  vibrant. 
Only  once  before  had  she  felt  it  so  strong  upon 
her.  Her  voice  rose  again,  almost  in  a  cry. 

"This  is  the  sword  of  Akbar — look  on  it  all  of 
ye!  for  it  is  drawn  in  anger,  to  be  sheathed  in 
shame.  Oh,  are  ye  blind?  Can  ye  not  see  that  it 
hath  roused  the  evil  spirits  from  their  spheres — 
yea,  and  the  very  keenness  of  the  blade  is  warped 
to  vile  and  grossest  bluntness — thus!" 

The  long,  heavy,  bared  sword  fell  clattering  at 
her  feet,  and  then  musicians,  princes,  slave  girls — 


146      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

all  those  who  had  watched  her  and  it,  silent  and 
staring,  saw  that  the  straight,  narrow  span  of  steel 
lying  on  the  pavement  two  paces  from  her  was  a 
dark  heap  of  coils — a  heap  that  shifted  and  melted 
and  unfolded  as  a  giant  cobra  rose  gradually  erect, 
swaying  slightly  with  expanded  hood.  Its  tiny,  evil 
eyes  shone  like  blood-red  rubies  in  the  gloom.  Over 
this  horror  stood  the  motionless,  white-draped 
woman  with  one  hand  flung  out  palm  downward 
and  her  down-turned  palm  was  only  a  bare  inch 
above  the  wicked  swaying  head  of  the  thing.  For 
one  stricken  moment  they  looked  and  then  the  full 
Durbar  fell  upon  their  faces  like  one  man  and  lay 
thus,  smitten  with  utter  terror.  Akbar  only  stood 
erect,  hiding  his  eyes  and  shivering  like  a  child. 
Safa  saw  that  Adhiraj  and  the  girl  were  gone. 
They  had  vanished  while  she  was  speaking.  She 
had  held  the  eyes  and  ears  of  all  the  rest,  and  they 
had  escaped  as  she  had  willed  that  they  should.  The 
effort  of  maintaining  the  seeming  serpent  in  the 
sight  of  all — of  imposing  the  power  of  her  will 
upon  so  many — had  been  extraordinary,  terrible. 
With  a  sudden  gasp  she  relaxed  from  the  awful 
rigidity  of  mind  and  will  and  body,  swayed  a  little, 
put  out  her  hand  as  though  to  find  support  and  then 
recovered.  With  a  deep  roar  the  storm  broke 
above  them  in  a  heavy  thunder  of  crashing  rain.. 
One  of  the  many  crouching  figures  prostrate  upon 


THE    EFFIGY  147 

the  floor  of  the  Durbar  lifted  its  head  hesitatingly 
and  saw  only  the  sword  lying  as  it  had  fallen.  In 
another  moment  they  were  all  on  their  feet  again, 
whispering,  and  the  girls,  whimpering,  clinging  to 
each  other's  hands,  were  bunched  together  like  terri- 
fied chickens.  Dimly,  Safa  was  aware  of  the  boy, 
Kama  Deva,  staring  at  her  as  at  one  risen  from 
the  dead.  And  then  Akbar  saw  that  his  daughter 
and  his  daughter's  lover  were  gone.  But  before  the 
word  was  spoken  that  would  set  half  a  hundred 
armed  men  upon  their  path  Safa  stretched  out 
her  hand  toward  him,  not  speaking,  and  he  looked 
at  her  and  was  silent. 

V 

Oh,  love,  love,  love !  O  withering  might ! 
O  sun  that  from  thy  noonday  height 
Shudderest  when  I  strain  my  sight, 
Throbbing  thro'  all  thy  heat  and  light. 
.  .  .  My  whole  soul  waiting  silently, 
All  naked  in  a  sultry  sky, 
Droops  blinded  with  his  shining  eye. 

"Fatima" — Tennyson. 

When  Safa,  standing  in  the  center  of  the  hall  of 
audience,  under  the  darkness  of  the  coming  thunder- 
storm, lifted  the  conquering  sword  of  Akbar  and 
cried  on  all  those  present  to  look  upon  it,  Adhiraj 
saw  instantly  that  he  and  Dil-Khusha  and  the  mat- 


148      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

ter  of  the  Bride's  Choice  were  for  the  moment 
thrust  from  all  minds.  There  were  none  standing 
behind  or  near  the  pedestal  of  the  fallen  effigy  now, 
and  the  lower  end  of  the  hall  was  empty.  Leading 
Dil-Khusha  he  drew  her  carefully  away  from  the 
rest,  treading  with  caution,  and  when  at  a  sufficient 
distance  he  took  the  girl  up  in  his  arms  suddenly 
and  ran  with  her. 

At  the  base  of  one  of  the  great-girthed  entrance 
pillars  was  a  servant,  standing  singly  and  holding  a 
bay  stallion.  The  other  grooms  and  horses  were 
huddled  in  the  shelter  of  a  colonnade,  fearful  of 
the  black  menace  that  lowered  horribly  above  them, 
dark  as  ebony.  Not  even  a  dog  slunk  in  the  great 
waste  spaces  of  the  forecourt  that  was  speckled  over 
with  the  yellowness  of  countless  marigold  heads. 

Dil-Khusha  felt  the  stagnant,  scarcely  cooler  outer 
air  upon  her  face.  She  was  set  down  as  suddenly 
as  she  had  been  caught  up — saw  the  bay  flank  and 
side  of  a  horse,  his  beautiful  profile,  upflung  head, 
and  a  full  eye,  dark  as  onyx,  roll  sideways  in 
its  socket.  She  saw  Adhiraj  leap  into  the  saddle, 
turn,  and  then  she  was  caught  off  her  feet  again, 
and  drawn  up  onto  the  saddle-bow  before  him.  As 
the  stallion  shot  forward,  like  a  javelin  from  the 
hand  of  a  thrower,  she  was  clinging  to  him  with  all 
the  strength  of  both  slim  arms,  her  face  held  close 
to  his. 


THE    EFFIGY 149 

There  was  a  cry  and  a  confused  shouting  behind 
them.  Then  came  furious  hoof-beats  in  their  rear. 
Jaswant  Singh,  the  servant,  had  torn  a  pearl-stud- 
ded bridle  from  the  grip  of  the  sayce  that  held  it 
and  was  following  in  his  master's  wake  on  the  gal- 
loping mount  of  an  Amir. 

They  were  out  of  the  Durbar  court  and  flying 
down  between  the  rows  of  palace  shops,  where  star- 
tled turbaned  heads  were  thrust  out  at  them  from 
the  dens  of  merchandise.  The  Rajput  guards  at 
the  gate  had  just  time  to  rein  back  their  startled 
horses  as  Adhiraj  and  his  light,  clinging  burden 
flashed  under  and  out  and  across  the  great  square, 
scattering  the  folk  like  chickens  before  the  swoop 
of  a  hawk.  Avoiding  the  winding  chaos  of  the 
bazaar  street,  they  headed  down  the  wider  avenue, 
lined  with  the  great  people's  houses,  to  the  city  gate. 
The  clean,  arrowy  gallop  of  the  Arab  was  swift  as 
the  flight  of  a  scudding  bird.  Dil-Khusha  was  not 
afraid.  As  she  clung  to  the  silent  rider,  in  the  whirl 
of  this  wild  race,  peace  sat  in  her  heart  like  a  dove 
drowsing  on  a  sunny  cornice.  She  did  not  think 
connectedly;  the  happenings  of  the  last  hour  had 
been  as  sudden  as  a  flash  of  lightning.  The  flying 
black  mane  of  the  horse  whipped  up  almost  against 
her  face.  Some  raised  goldwork  on  the  breast 
against  which  her  cheek  rested  hurt  her,  but  she 
did  not  mind  the  pain. 


150      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

A  burst  of  yet  more  frantic  speed,  a  clatter  of 
steel  on  stone,  a  challenging  cry  behind  them  and 
the  city  gate  was  passed.  On  that  instant  the  storm 
broke.  It  was  as  though  a  warm  ocean,  that  had 
the  sky  for  floor,  had  fallen.  The  stallion's  for- 
ward rush  slackened  perceptibly,  and  the  girl  gave 
a  little  involuntary  cry  that  was  more  than  a  gasp. 
For  the  first  time  since  he  had  taken  her  in  his 
arms  in  the  Durbar  Adhiraj  spoke: 

"Gods!  Fate  fights  with  the  Mohammedan. 
.  .  .  Yet  I  shall  win!  Chut,  swazi!"  he  cried  to 
the  straining  horse. 

Their  speed  increased  again  as  the  horse  was 
spoken  to  and  they  swept  on  at  a  long,  loping  gallop 
under  the  beating,  blinding,  liquid  curtain  of  the 
rain.  Dil-Khusha,  lying  against  his  breast  with 
closed  eyes,  was  drenched  to  the  skin  in  the  first  few 
seconds.  The  deadened  beat  of  the  hoofs,  unvary- 
ing, and  the  deep-toned,  all-embracing  roar  of  the 
downpour  dulled  her  senses.  Passively  she  endured 
the  lashing  of  the  solidly  falling  rain  against  her 
face  and  the  merciless  drenching  that  had  converted 
the  pretty  spangled  muslin  that  enwrapped  her  into 
a  clammy,  streaming  shroud.  It  was  like  wetness 
woven  into  a  palpable  garment.  She  began  to  ex- 
perience the  feeling  of  being  in  an  abnormal  dream, 
which  ranges  over  one  or  two  sensations  only,  yet 
it  seemed  a  dream  of  an  interminable  length.  .  .  . 


THE     EFFIGY 151 

Soon  after  this  she  must  have  slipped  into  the  semi- 
unconsciousness  which  held  her  till  the-  end  and 
after.  .  .  . 

Once  her  consciousness  glimmered  up  almost  to 
the  surface  for  a  few  moments.  She  was  aware  that 
there  was  no  forward  motion  beneath  her ;  that  there 
was  no  rain  against  her  face.  In  a  muffled  way  she 
felt  what  seemed  like  hot  lips  touching  her  forehead. 
Then  something  happened — some  movement  affect- 
ing her  position — and  she  sank  softly  back  into  the 
void. 

When  the  realization  of  her  own  existence  and 
identity  returned  again,  climbing  slowly  up  as  from 
some  outward  widening  gulf,  she  knew  that  she  was 
lying  easefully  upon  her  back  with  shut  eyes.  And 
then,  like  broad  sunlight  flooding  through  an  open 
door  into  a  room  that  has  been  darkened,  she  re- 
membered. Her  eyes  opened  instantly.  She  was  in 
a  small  room  lit  dully  by  a  hanging  lamp  with  sides 
of  golden  glass  and  she  lay  upon  a  low,  broad  bed 
laid  with  a  silk  mattress.  The  frame  of  the  bed 
was  of  sandalwood  carved  with  peacocks  and  ele- 
phants, and  the  sweet,  aromatic  smell  of  it  pervaded 
the  entire  place.  She  observed  that  she  was  clad 
only  in  a  loose,  white  silk  garment  open  on  the 
breast,  and  that  her  hair,  which  was  still  damp,  was 
in  two  heavy  plaits. 

Just  then  the  curtain  before  the  doorway  was 


152      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

lifted  and  a  stout,  smiling  woman,  with  gold  flowers 
in  her  shell-like  ears,  entered. 

"Ah,  praise  be  to  the  Holy  Ones!  My  lady  has 
aroused,"  she  cried.  "Ah,  what  a  sight  when  they 
brought  thee  in!  The  rosebuds  matted  in  thy  wet 
hair  and  the  satin  of  the  henna  almost  washed  from 
thy  feet.  But  all  is  well  now,  is  it  not  ?" 

The  girl  smiled  at  her. 

"Who  art  thou?"  she  asked. 

"Sitara,  my  lady.  I  suckled  the  gracious  lord 
when  his  mother  could  not ;  when  I  was  scarce  older 
than  thee." 

"Where  am  I?" 

"Safe  in  my  lord's  city  and  in  the  bridal  cham- 
ber that  he  had  prepared  for  thee." 

Dil-Khusha  sat  up,  her  face  burning  under  a  flush. 
A  shame  that  was  delicious,  yet  intense,  tingled 
through  her. 

"How  long  have  I  been  here,  Sitara?" 

"Not  half  an  hour,  my  lady.  Dost  thou  feel  fit 
to  see  the  gracious  lord?" 

Dil-Khusha  rose  to  her  feet  slowly.  Fatigue  and 
a  dizziness  lay  upon  her,  but  her  lapse  into  uncon- 
sciousness had  been  the  fruit  of  an  abrupt  reaction 
from  nervous  tension  strung  to  the  highest  point 
and  now  the  tingling  waves  of  sensation  that  swept 
over  her,  shamefaced,  but  sweet  as  honey,  were  lift- 


THE     EFFIGY 158 

ing  her  above  all  weariness  into  an  expectant  region 
where  she  loved  intensely  and  desired. 

"I — I  am  well,  Sitara,"  she  said. 

She  refused  the  stout,  smiling  woman's  entreaties 
to  eat,  but  drank  a  little  warm  milk.  Then  Sitara 
snapped  thick  golden  anklets  about  her  ankles  and 
clasped  her  bracelets  on  Dil-Khusha's  arms. 

"The  gracious  lord  will  lose  patience  with  us 
women,"  she  declared,  "if  I  spend  more  time  in 
adorning  thee." 

When  she  had  gone  out  Dil-Khusha  was  seized 
with  a  trembling,  but  it  was  a  trembling  which  she 
did  not  strive  to  check.  Only  once  before,  a  week 
ago,  had  they  been  alone  together  in  the  presence 
of  their  love,  for  on  the  two  preceding  mornings 
she  had  just  listened,  scarcely  raising  her  eyes  to 
him,  and  now  .  .  . 

She  studied  without  observing  it  the  geometrical 
pattern  of  the  black  and  yellow  tapestry,  opposite, 
which  was  specked  at  regular  intervals  with  tiny 
round  bits  of  mirror  no  bigger  than  silver  coins. 
Love  and  an  exquisite,  poignant  shamefacedness  al- 
ternated within  her  as  rapidly  as  a  flickering  flame 
flares  up  and  dies  down.  The  small  room,  under 
the  dull  amber  glow  of  the  lamp,  might  have  been 
hollowed  out,  close  and  secret,  at  the  core  of  a  moun- 
tain with  half  a  mile  of  solid  rock  between  it  and  the 


154      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

outer  world  on  every  side.  There  was  no  sound  of 
any  storm  and  no  hint  of  any  human  sound  .  .  . 
yes,  a  quick  step — his  step — was  coming  softly  to- 
ward her.  Dil-Khusha  stood  up.  The  curtain  was 
put  aside  abruptly  and  Adhiraj  was  in  the  room. 

He  saw  a  little,  exquisitely  shaped  girl  of  fifteen, 
trembling  slightly,  clad  in  a  loose,  semi-transparent 
silken  garment,  with  her  hair  in  two  long,  heavy, 
jet-black  plaits,  and  beautiful,  half-frightened  eyes. 

"Heart's  Delight,  dost  thou  fear  me?"  he  whis- 
pered. As  he  took  her  in  his  arms,  holding  her 
closely,  passionately,  to  him,  Dil-Khusha  whispered, 
"No  .  .  .  I — I  love  thee  too  greatly,  my  lord.  .  .  . 
If — if  thou  hadst  not  come  I  should  have  stabbed 
myself — I  had  the  dagger  in  my  dress.  .  .  .  Oh 
my  lord  it  is  sweet  to  be  thy  wife.  .  .  .  ' 

His  arms  were  about  her  strongly,  strainingly, 
his  lips  were  upon  hers,  and  her  shame  had  melted 
from  her  like  wax  in  fire.  Her  whole  being  seemed 
only  a  flame  of  love  that  quivered  against  his  breast. 


PART   IV 

THE   SIGNAL 

I 

All  night  the  barons  came  and  went, 
The  lords  of  the  outer  guard: 
All   night   the   cressets   glimmered  pale 
On  Ulwar  saber  and  Tonk  jezail, 
Mewar  headstall  and  Marwar  mail, 
That  clinked  in  the  palace  yard. 

"The  Last  Suttee"— Kipling. 

AN  Indian  city  at  dusk.  The  broad,  golden 
countenance  of  a  full  moon  dawned 
through  the  haze  of  a  sleepy  saffron  sky; 
the  shake  of  a  bell  on  a  humped  bullock  driven  by 
a  little  boy  sounded  intermittently;  the  slow,  in- 
evitable drifting  passage  of  many  homing  cows  pro- 
claimed a  peaceful  close  to  the  tropic  day.  Yet 
under  the  perfect  dreamy  stillness  of  the  twilight, 
sleep-laden  like  a  yellow  poppy,  there  was  no  peace- 
fulness,  but  a  stirring  and  a  seething;  a  dull,  hurtful, 
heavy  throb  of  women's  grief. 

A  girl,  a  bride  of  one  month,  came  slowly  out 
into  a  house  yard,  sat  down  upon  the  well-curb  and 

155 


156      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

bowed  her  head,  weeping  bitterly — a  dim  figure  of 
comfortless  grief  in  the  dusk.  In  the  bazaar,  where 
numberless  little  oil  flames  burned,  there  was  much 
activity.  Swords,  knives,  lances,  axes,  shields  and 
other  war  equipment — these  were  the  wares  about 
which  the  men  gathered,  fingering,  chaffering,  and 
their  talk  dripped  of  blood  and  reeked  with  the  smell 
of  slaughter,  while  naked  babies  listened  with  round, 
owl-like  eyes.  In  a  by-street  a  troop  of  bad  little 
boys  were  playing. 

"Listen,  all  of  ye,"  announced  the  eldest.  "I  am 
Rajah  Adhiraj.  Which  of  ye  will  be  the  devil 
Mohammedan?" 

No  one  would,  so  they  dragged  a  whimpering  lit- 
tle fellow  from  his  mother's  doorstep  and  made  him 
sit  upon  a  throne  improvised  from  a  big  upturned, 
broken  chattie.  He  wore  nothing  but  a  small  silver 
leaf  suspended  from  a  string  about  his  middle. 
Then  they  set  upon  him,  headed  by  "Rajah  Adhi- 
raj," and  beat  and  hustled  him  until  his  howls 
brought  out  his  mother,  upon  which  "Rajah  Adhi- 
raj" and  his  followers  fled. 

In  and  about  the  palace  dwelling  of  the  lord  of 
the  city  this  unusual  and  ominous  stir  was  empha- 
sized. A  servant  squatting  at  the  head  of  a  flight 
of  steps  cleaning  some  chain-mail  by  the  crude, 
wavering  light  of  flaming  fire-baskets,  heard  the 
uneasy  trumpeting  of  an  elephant  and  the  shuffling 


THE     SIGNAL 157 

and  stamping  of  gathered  horses.  Somewhere,  in 
some  semi-open  hall  or  chamber  at  the  back  of  him, 
a  man  was  speaking,  passionately,  with  a  raised 
voice.  .  .  .  "They  are  many  and  we  are  few,  but 
we  are  Rajputs,  my  brothers  ...  I  am  of  the  house 
of  the  children  of  the  sun — the  highest  among  ye. 
Let  any  disprove  it  if  he  can.  .  .  .  They  have  des- 
poiled our  temples,  ravished  our  women  and  planted 
their  heel  upon  our  necks.  Is  our  manhood  forgot- 
ten ?  Are  we  the  puppies  of  dogs  to  take  meat  from 
the  hand  that  has  beaten  us?  Will  ye  strike  for  all 
Hindustan,  for  your  children's  children,  for  the  gods 
of  your  fathers?  My  brothers,  will  ye  ride  with 
me  to  Delhi  ?" 

The  servant  squatting  at  the  head  of  the  steps 
heard  a  deep-throated  answering  growl  in  the  affir- 
mative. 

Going  within  to  the  Zenana  wing  of  the  palace, 
a  girl  stopped  and  leaned  upon  the  broad  ledge  of 
an  oval  window-opening  looking  out  across  the  up- 
per levels  of  the  houses.  Hollow  golden  globes 
hung  from  her  ears  and  her  arms,  from  wrist  al- 
most to  elbow,  were  cased  in  gold — innumerable 
bracelet  hoops — for  Dil-Khusha  was  a  Rani  now. 
As  the  swift  night  fell  she  rested  her  chin  upon  one 
small  palm,  staring  out  above  the  uneasy  movement 
and  murmur  of  the  city.  There  was  a  flickering 
flight  of  bats  to  and  fro,  and  the  haze-blurred  glow 


'158      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

of  the  low,  amber  moon,  slumberous  as  though 
drugged  with  the  opium  of  poppies.  And  below 
shone  the  unsteady  flare  of  fire-baskets,  sending  up 
gusts  of  unclean,  dusky  smoke,  about  which  men 
came  and  went  and  worked. 

Dil-Khusha  was  not  conscious  of  actual  grief,  but 
a  quietness  that  had  its  root  in  sorrow,  rather  than 
joy,  had  settled  mist-like  upon  her.  There  was  no 
more  doubt  and  conflict;  she  had  attained  that  for 
which  she  had  wept  and  agonized  and  striven — the 
intimate  and  possessive  love  of  one  man.  In  that 
attainment  was  begotten  the  steadfast  inner  joy 
that  never  left  her  now  and  also  a  fluctuating 
anxiety,  sharp  sometimes  as  a  knife,  for  where 
there  is  love  there  is  always  fear. 

She  missed  Draupadi  and  Bhima,  the  Persian  cat, 
a  little,  but  that  was  all.  There  was  a  cat  here,  too, 
fluffier  even  than  Bhima,  and  she  was  tinted  like  a 
whiff  of  pale  smoke ;  but  she  had  no  dignity  or  dis- 
tinguished arrogance.  She  ate  anything  that  was 
set  before  her,  a  slave  to  five  floss-silk  kittens,  and 
she  purred  upon  the  slightest  provocation.  It  was 
dark  already.  The  tongues  of  flame  below  had 
become  very  lurid,  and  it  seemed  as  though  a  fev- 
erish spirit  of  unrest  had  invaded  the  night. 

A  hand  from  behind  was  laid  lightly  upon  the 
girl's  shoulder.  She  turned  instantly  and  faced  Ad- 
hiraj.  Without  speaking  he  led  her  back  into  the 


THE    SIGNAL 159 

darkness  of  the  room,  where  she  crouched  down 
among  piled  cushions,  holding  his  head  upon  her 
breast,  and  knowing  that  she  held  all  her  world — 
the  joy  and  sorrow  of  it  in  her  arms — against  her 
heart. 

"Is  all  prepared?"  she  whispered. 

"Yea;  they  will  ride  with  me  against  gods  or 
devils." 

"Oh  my  lord " 

"What  is  it,  Heart's  Delight?  Is  it  because  it  is 
thy  father " 

"No — no I  cannot  feel  toward  him  as  a 

daughter  should.  I  do  not  care  .  .  .  But  I — I  have 
fear  for  thee  .  .  .  Lord  of  my  heart." 

"There  is  no  need.  It  is  but  the  risk  that  any 
man  must  take  if  he  be  a  man.  As  thou  knowest, 
beloved,  it  is  either  he  or  I,  for  by  taking  thee  as 
I  did  I  plucked  his  very  beard  in  his  own  hall,  and 
thy  father  is  not  afflicted  with  tameness  of  spirit. 
Why  he  hath  so  long  delayed  to  send  his  Amirs 
against  me  is  a  riddle  I  cannot  read,  but  they  will 
come  as  surely  as  the  rains  follow  the  drought.  It 
may  be  some  ruse  .  .  .  But  I  will  not  wait  his  pleas- 
ure behind  my  walls  until  his  Mohammedans  starve 
us  out.  Who  knows?  There  are  many  with  me, 
and  there  will  be  more  when  our  advance  is  known. 
Delhi  hath  changed  hands  before  for  lesser  cause. 
Would  it  please  thee  to  be  Rani  to  a  ruler  of  all 


160      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

Hindustan,  Heart's  Delight  ?  To  rule  in  the  Zenana 
of  the  palace,  where  thou  wert  born?" 

The  girl  bent  silently  till  her  lips  touched  his 
brow.  She  had  said  truly  that  her  father  was  noth- 
ing to  her  now.  He  had  murdered  the  timid  feel- 
ing she  had  for  him  on  the  day  of  her  Bride's 
Choice.  All  that  she  loved  lay  against  her  breast. 

"Didst  thou  heed  how  Safa  befriended  us?"  she 
said  presently.  "My  father  would  have  cleft  us 
with  his  sword — he  was  so  enraged — had  it  not  been 
for  her.  I  often  think  of  her.  Dost  thou  think 
that  she  brought  danger  upon  herself  by  what  she 
did?  He  will  permit  none  to  cross  him." 

The  head  upon  her  breast  moved  slightly.  The 
young  man  smiled  in  the  dark. 

"Heart's  Delight,  there  is  no  danger  in  Delhi 
for  the  woman  of  whom  thou  speakest.  Unless  I 
know  nothing  of  men,  she  is  now  lodged  in  the 
Zenana  of  thy  father,  filling  his  soul  with  bliss,  her 
smallest  wish  a  law  unto  him — while  his  passion  en- 
dures. His  madness  for  her  was  apparent  before 
all  the  Durbar  at  thy  Bride's  Choice." 

Dil-Khusha  laughed  a  little.  "Oh  I  was  blind 
that  day,  and  thou  wert  all  to  blame.  .  .  .  My  lord, 
thou  wilt  not  leave  me  here  when  thou  goest  against 
my  father?" 

"What  is  this  thou  askest,  Heart's  Desire?  A 
man  does  not  take  that  which  he  prizes  most  into 


THE     SIGNAL  161 

the  battle  with  him.  He  leaves  it  securely  in  his 
city,  guarded  and  watched." 

"Oh,  I  am  no  toy,  but  a  Rajput  woman !  I  shall 
kill  myself  with  fears  if  thou  leavest  me — I  cannot 
bear  it!  Oh,  my  lord  ...  If  thou  lovest  me  ... 
let  me  go  with  thee.  I  have  no  fear  for  myself — 
only  for  thee — who  wouldst  slay  my  soul  if  thou 
goest  from  me!" 

And  in  the  darkness  with  her  kisses  upon  his  lips 
Adhiraj  consented. 

II 

Heat,  shimmering  like  quicksilver,  lay  upon  the 
drab,  dwarf-like  scrub  that  shielded  the  snake,  the 
lizard  and  the  scorpion.  The  sky  was  blue-gray, 
close,  devoid  of  all  radiance,  save  the  white-hot  sear- 
ing eye  of  the  sun.  A  sluggish  river  slipped  its 
brown  water  from  shelf  to  shallow  shelf  of  rock, 
and  on  a  small,  rocky  island  in  the  midst  of  the 
drying  pools  a  tiny  temple,  white  as  freshly  fallen 
snow,  lifted  a  single  cupola.  It  was  a  shrine  dedi- 
cated to  a  woman  who  had  been  taken  by  a  crocodile 
as  she  bathed  on  the  morning  of  her  marriage.  She 
was  now  adored  in  the  district  as  the  special  pat- 
roness of  weddings. 

Many  men  were  moving  in  the  dusty  tracks  of  a 
high  road  that  ran  parallel  with  the  river  bed.  It 


162      THE    SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

seemed  like  a  torrent  of  men — passing — passing, 
thousand  by  thousand,  mounted  and  afoot.  And  the 
bitter  glare  of  the  sun  struck  white  flashes  of  pain- 
ful light  from  sword  and  lance  and  plated  shield — 
flashes  that  came  and  went  and  came  again  all  down 
the  long,  narrow,  moving  ranks.  Horses  coughed 
from  the  dust,  and  at  regular  intervals  a  clump  of 
armored  elephants,  like  living  hillocks,  would  sway 
past.  The  aged  Brahmin  who  had  charge  of  the 
little  island-perched  shrine  gaped  from  the  diminu- 
tive temple  porch,  staring  under  his  curved  palm 
and  his  kitten,  with  a  swollen  tail,  spat  hysterically 
at  the  passing  army,  and  fled  into  the  inner  cham- 
ber. It  was  a  long,  long  while  since  armed  men 
had  passed  that  way,  and  surely  now  the  times  were 
peaceful  though  a  Moghul  ruled  at  Delhi. 

At  the  center  of  the  unbroken  stream  of  armed 
men  moved  an  unarmored  cow  elephant,  hung  with 
swinging  silver,  tassellated,  and  bearing  a  large  cur- 
tained howdah.  A  fan-bearer  sat  behind  the  ma- 
hout, fanning  someone  who  lay  within  the  curtains. 
By  the  flank  of  the  howdah-bearing  beast  rode  a 
young  man  clad  in  chain  armor,  his  round,  spiked 
helmet  set  with  a  circle  of  carbuncles.  His  mount 
was  a  bay  Arab  stallion.  In  this  manner  was  Dil- 
Khusha,  daughter  of  Akbar,  returning  to  Delhi,  the 
city  of  her  father.  The  heat  shimmered  upon  the 
drab,  sun-baked  earth;  the  horses,  reeking  with 


THE     SIGNAL  163 

sweat,  looked  as  though  they  had  just  risen  from 
a  plunge  in  a  river;  the  armed  thousands  of  the  in- 
terminably narrow  column,  plodding  in  the  dust, 
were  stubbornly  patient,  accepting  the  distressful- 
ness  of  circumstance  as  oxen  accept  the  yoke.  War 
was  the  legitimate  business  of  their  race. 

Suddenly,  with  a  slight  ripple  of  confusion,  the 
column  halted.  Elephants  swayed,  flicking  their  pig- 
like  tails  and  flapping  their  enormous  ears;  necks 
were  craned  and  the  chirping  of  insects  became  au- 
dible in  the  dusty  grass.  A  butterfly,  large  as  a 
small  bird,  hovered  above  the  thorny  bushes.  Ad- 
hiraj  wheeled  his  horse  outward  to  meet  one  of  his 
captains  galloping  down  from  the  front  of  the  halted 
army.  They  spoke  together  for  a  few  moments  and 
then  both  started  for  the  head  of  the  column,  urging 
their  horses. 

A  little  in  advance  of  the  front  ranks  were  a  group 
of  mounted  captains.  The  eldest,  a  stout  Rajput 
baron,  on  a  white  mare  whose  tail  was  dyed  ruddy 
with  henna,  laid  the  situation  before  Adhiraj. 

"My  lord,  we,  thy  servants,  are  in  perplexity. 
The  Mohammedan,  as  we  thought  till  now,  was  ig- 
norant of  our  advance,  yet  those  who  ride  ahead  spy- 
ing the  country  have  returned  upon  this  instant  and 
report  that  a  multitude  of  men — many  hundreds,  are 
approaching  us.  But  they  have  no  elephants  and 
seemingly  few  horses.  What  does  my  lord  advise  ?" 


THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

"How  distant  are  they,  Shitab  Rai?" 

"They  approach  us  swiftly,  my  lord.  See !  There 
is  their  vanguard  now." 

A  black  line,  like  a  short  inch-wide  ebony  rod, 
laid  along  the  horizon,  was  visible  through  the  far 
heat  shimmer.  Adhiraj  frowned. 

"Send  out  the  mounted  spies  again,  instantly.  In- 
struct them  to  ride  as  close  as  they  may ;  to  observe 
weapons,  trappings  and  the  appearance  of  the  lead- 
ers, and  to  return  as  the  arrow  flies.  We  will  await 
their  report." 

In  the  silence  there  was  only  the  swish  of  the 
horses'  tails  and  the  chirrup  of  insects.  Some  way 
down  the  column  a  man  who  had  been  smitten  with 
sunstroke  was  dragged  out  of  the  ranks  and  rolled 
on  one  side  while  his  companions  divided  his  equip- 
ment among  them.  Presently  a  man  spurring  a 
slavering  horse  reined  in,  threw  himself  from  the 
saddle  and  salaamed  to  Adhiraj. 

"Defender  of  the  helpless,  I  rode  as  I  was  in- 
structed, and  as  I  neared  their  front  one  from 
among  them  rode  out  to  meet  me,  making  signs  of 
peace.  He  sayeth  that  they  are  men  from  the  lands 
of  one  Rajah  Vickram,  who  was  slain  by  the  Mo- 
ghul,  and  that  they  go  to  Delhi  to  seek  his  son  who 
was  taken  from  among  them  by  armed  men  many 
days  ago.  They  sent  first  a  messenger,  a  woman 
having  power  from  the  gods,  whom  they  reverence, 


THE     SIGNAL 165 

but  neither  she  nor  the  prince  have  yet  returned,  and 
they  have  come  to  seek  them,  and  if  need  be  to  de- 
liver them  by  force.  I  have  reported  the  tale  as  it 
was  told  me,  Master  of  India." 


Ill 

That  star  is  languorous  with  divine  excess! 
O  world  of  wearied  passion  dimly  bright! 
Now  the  armed  man  doth  lay  his  armor  by, 
And  now  the  husband  cometh  to  the  wife. 

"Herod"— Stephen  Phillips. 

A  bright,  formless  flame,  floating  upon  oil, 
burned  within  the  golden  fretwork  lamp  hanging  by 
four  chains  from  the  roof.  Four  large  jeweled  tears 
of  green  jade  hung  from  the  under  corners  of  the 
lamp-casket,  and  the  light  was  dimly  faint  and  flick- 
ering. Safa  sat  in  the  shadow  of  a  sandalwood 
screen. 

"Well,  Sikandra,  what  was  the  message  of  this 
man  thou  didst  speak  with  in  the  city?" 

The  old  servant  salaamed  again. 

"Gracious  One,  as  I  have  said,  he  was  a  villager 
from  the  lands  of  Rajah  Vickram  disguised  as  a 
wandering  holy  beggar.  I  met  him  in  the  great 
square  and  he  beckoned  me  to  a  quiet  place  where 
he  revealed  himself.  He  said  that,  after  thy  going 
the  people  waited  at  first  in  hope,  then  in  fear,  and 


166      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

then  became  very  angry.  After  a  certain  time  they 
took  their  weapons  again  from  where  they  had  hid- 
den them." 

Safa  leaned  forward. 

"And  all  the  active  men  and  all  the  young  men 
stole  away  from  their  villages  by  tens  and  twenties, 
and  met  at  an  appointed  place.  He  said  that  they 
had  no  true  leaders,  nor  any  fixed  plan,  save  to  pro- 
ceed to  Delhi  and  deliver  thee  and  my  lord  Kama 
Deva.  But  on  their  way  thither  they  encountered 
an  army  with  war  elephants  and  all  equipment  .  .  ." 

"Yes— yes " 

Sikandra  Khan  glanced  furtively  behind  him  and 
on  each  side.  He  lowered  his  voice  to  a  husky 
whisper. 

"Gracious  One,  it  was  an  army  led  by  Rajah  Ad- 
hiraj,  and  he  also  had  his  face  set  toward  Delhi." 

"Ah!  .  .  .  And  then?" 

"And  then,  Gracious  One,  Rajah  Adhiraj  and  the 
head  man  of  the  village  where  thou  wast  last  enter- 
tained spoke  together  and  the  villagers  jojned  them- 
selves to  the  Rajah's  army,  but  they  made  first  one 
condition." 

"What  was  it,  Sikandra?" 

"It  was  this,  Gracious  One:  that  before  the  city 
was  attacked  they  should  make  one  attempt  to  reach 
and  communicate  with  thee  by  secret  means." 

"To  what  end?" 


THE     SIGNAL 167 

"My  lady,  thou — thou  knowst  the  reverence  in 
which  we,  thy  servants,  hold  thee.  Had  the  mes- 
senger they  sent  failed  to  meet  with  me  they  would 
have  accepted  the  decree  of  the  gods  and  fought 
with  a  good  heart,  but  the  lord  Vishnu  guided  their 
messenger  and  he  hath  delivered  to  me  the  words 
that  were  put  into  his  mouth.  .  .  .  This  is  their 
message,  Gracious  One :  'If  we,  thy  servants,  are 
assured  of  thine  aid  in  this  enterprise  we  will  fight 
certain  of  victory  and  every  man  shall  be  mightier 
than  a  Rustum.  But  thy  wisdom  is  beyond  ours; 
thy  will  is  our  law.  Therefore,  until  mid-afternoon 
to-morrow — that  is  when  the  length  of  all  shadows 
is  equal  with  the  height  of  that  which  casteth  them 
— we  will  await  a  sign  from  thee,  and  if  the  sign 
cometh  we,  thy  servants,  will  hold  our  hands  from 
the  attatk,  trusting  in  thy  wisdom.' ' 

Much  anxious  consultation  and  painful  choosing 
of  phrases  had  gone  to  the  construction  of  this  mes- 
sage, concocted  by  a  circle  of  village  elders  squat- 
ting about  a  smouldering  dung  fire  in  the  camp  of 
Adhiraj.  With  painful  care  had  it  been  repeated 
word  for  word  by  the  messenger,  who  was  streaked 
with  yellow  paint  and  smeared  with  ashes.  Sikan- 
dra  Khan  had  as  carefully  listened  as  they  stood  be- 
hind a  crate  of  fowls  on  the  west  side  of  the  square. 
Safa  had  sunk  softly  back  among  her  cushions  dur- 
ing the  delivery  of  the  message. 


168      THE    SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

"How  near  are  they  to  this  city,  Sikandra  ?" 
"They  can  be  at  the  gates  within  an  hour,  Gra- 
cious One,  but  I  do  not  know  where  they  lie." 

"And  they  will  not  go  out  to  attack  until  the 
hour  of  twilight  to-morrow?" 

"No,  Gracious  One,  the  villagers  will  not  stir  until 
the  time  appointed  for  the  sign  hath  passed,  and 
Rajah  Adhiraj  hath  planned  to  storm  the  city  gates 
at  sunset.    Their  messenger  spoke  to  me  of  a  stick 
three  feet  high  that  they  will  set  upright  in  the 
earth  at  noon,  and  if  the  sign  cometh  before  its 
shadow  hath  grown  also  to  a  length  of  three  feet 
they  will  not  fight — so  their  message  says." 
"And  none  else  know  of  this  thing,  Sikandra?" 
"No  one  else  knows,  Gracious  One." 
"That  is  well.    Thou  canst  leave  me." 
When  he  had  gone  out  she  arose,  went  slowly  to 
the  wide,  arched  window  opening  and  leaned  there, 
looking  down.     The  alabaster  eyrie  which  held  her 
was   a   domed,    seven-roomed   summer-house   built 
upon  the  flat  roof  of  a  wing  of  the  great  palace, 
and  the  window  where  she  leaned  looked  down  upon 
an  inner  court  of  the   Zenana.,   sixty  feet  below. 
Above,  the  warm  night  was  full  of  stars. 

This  range  of  aerial  alabaster  chambers,  where 
even  at  noon  there  was  a  coolness  in  the  air,  had 
been  offered  to  her  for  her  use  after  the  Bride's 
Choice  of  Dil-Khusha.  It  had  been  tendered  to  her 


THE     SIGN  AL  169 

humbly,  beseechingly — and  she  had  accepted  the  of- 
fer. Save  for  a  girl  to  serve  her,  she  was  alone. 
None  came  but  Sikandra.  But  wonderful  gifts,  like 
offerings  at  the  shrine  of  a  famed  goddess,  were 
laid  daily  at  the  door  of  the  seven-roomed  summer- 
house.  And  always  with  them  came  the  same  mes- 
sage :  Was  it  her  pleasure  that  he,  the  giver,  should 
speak  with  her?  And  always  she  sent  the  same 
answer. 

She  leaned  far  out  of  the  window.  The  smell  of 
roses  ascended  from  the  fountain-murmuring  gulf 
below  like  incense  rising  from  a  censer.  In  the  sky 
above  the  swelling  bulge  of  a  cupola  a  bright  star 
flashed.  The  air  was  warm  as  the  breath  of  a 
woman.  The  abrupt  and  terrible  thing  which  had 
been  told  to  her  seemed  to  Safa  like  something  she 
had  known  always  and  had  been  awaiting.  She 
could  not  weigh  and  consider  it;  it  confronted  her 
like  a  stone  cliff  reaching  from  horizon  to  zenith, 
concrete,  enormous,  unescapable. 

Presently  she  became  vividly  aware  of  the  scores 
of  concubines  sleeping  in  the  many-chambered  laby- 
rinth below — a  carefully  watched  garden,  thronged 
with  girl-buds  and  flower-women.  Yet  the  master 
of  the  garden  had  not  gone  down  into  his  paradise 
to  taste  their  sweetness  .  .  .  And  it  was  a  night  for 
love — passionate  love;  for  the  swimming  scent  of 
roses,  the  sparkle  of  golden  stars,  the  warm,  all- 


170      THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

concealing  darkness  and  the  strong  embrace  of  a 
man  who  has  been  long  denied  and  the  surrender  of 
lips  to  his.  .  .  . 

A  sensation  as  of  bland  heat,  delicious  and  poig- 
nant, flushed  through  her.  She  felt  that  somewhere 
near — at  the  end  of  a  short  flight  of  stairs  and  a 
length  of  dim-lit  passageway,  perhaps — the  master 
of  the  place  was  sleepless  and  desirous,  and  the 
knowledge  stabbed  her  with  a  pleasure  that  was 
keener  than  steel.  But  there  was  to-morrow  and 
Adhiraj  and  .  .  .  the  signal! 

The  stone  cliff  was  before  her,  looming  between 
the  present  and  the  future  like  a  wall  of  adamant. 
She  knew  what  manner  of  signal  was  expected  from 
her.  More  than  once  before  had  she  sent  out  the 
strange  power  of  her  will  to  a  great  distance  and 
those  to  whom  the  sending  was  directed  had  heard 
— or  thought  they  heard — the  sound  of  her  voice 
and  the  message.  Such  manifestations  were  always 
dreadful,  sucking  up  the  strength  of  mind  and  body, 
but  it  could  be  done  again  .  .  . 

A  stick  three  feet  high  set  in  the  earth  and  the 
length  of  its  shadow  measured !  The  minds  of  these 
village  folk  were  simple  and  soaked  with  ancient 
usage  as  the  soil  they  ploughed.  .  .  .  And  they 
trusted  to  her  more  than  to  their  gods.  What  would 
be  her  part  to-morrow? 

The  foreshadowing  of  an  infinitely  terrible  strug- 


THE     SIGNAL 171 

gle,  vital  as  the  blood  of  her  heart,  laid  hideous 
hands  upon  her.  On  the  one  side  the  beautiful  face 
of  a  boy  with  eyes  of  night — her  own  eyes — stared 
at  her  and  on  the  other  loomed  a  figure  which  she 
had  hardly  yet  dared  to  look  upon  or  to  acknowl- 
edge ;  hesitatingly  she  stood  between  these  two. 

This  woman,  mature  as  a  ripe,  red-stained  pome- 
granate-fruit, had  never  wakened  to  the  deep-rooted 
sex-love  that  blossoms  between  a  woman  and  a  man. 
Her  son  had  been  the  child  of  ignorance,  deception 
and  the  clinging  weakness  of  a  girl,  who  was  herself 
only  a  child — not  of  passion.  For  many  years  the 
hungry  love  that  burnt  in  her  had  spent  itself  wholly 
upon  him — her  son  who  prayed  that  she  might  be 
dead;  who  must  never  know  her  as  his  mother; 
and  whom  she  served  in  secret,  following  from  afar 
with  a  breaking  heart.  And  now  she  saw  that  the 
silver,  sword-shaped  flame  of  vengeance  which  the 
boy  followed  as  a  lover  follows  his  mistress  led 
him  only  to  one  man:  Akbar,  Lord  of  Hindustan. 

If  any  hand — even  hers — should  seek  to  turn 
aside  the  boy's  knife  from  that  broad,  gold-em- 
blazoned breast  his  bitterest  hate  would  envelop 
her  from  that  hour.  He  must  not  hate  her!  Her 
son — her  only  son ! 

A  picture  rose  vividly  before  her  inner  sight.  She 
saw  the  marble  steps  of  a  throne  and  a  man  fallen 
upon  them.  Over  him  stood  a  boy  terribly  exultant. 


172      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

A  red  stream  that  crawled  twistingly  crept  down 
the  steps.  The  fallen  man  was  clad  in  a  white  and 
purple  robe  starred  with  gold,  and  he  was  dead; 
slain  by  the  hands  of  her  own  child! 

"No — no !    Not  that— not  that !" 

She  clutched  the  cool  sill  of  the  window  opening, 
shuddering  violently.  Again  the  two  figures  stood 
one  on  either  side  of  her. 

"Oh  my  son — my  son !  If  thou  wouldst  but  come 
to  me !  If  thou  wouldst  let  me  take  thy  head  against 
my  breast!" 

It  was  drawing  toward  midnight  when  Safa 
turned  from  the  window  opening  to  the  dim,  shat- 
tered glow  of  the  pierced  golden  lamp,  whose  flame 
burned  steadily  in  the  stirless  air.  She  clapped  her 
hands  sharply. 

After  a  moment  a  Hindu  girl  put  aside  the  velvet 
curtain,  worked  with  silver  peacocks.  She  had  just 
roused  from  sleep  and  her  heavy  eyes  were  submis- 
sive and  dog-like. 

"Dunga,  go  to  those  who  watch  before  the  Lord 
Akbar's  apartment  and  leave  this  word  with  them — 
that  I  will  speak  with  their  master  at  the  second 
hour  after  the  noon  to-morrow,  wherever  he  may 
appoint." 


THE    SIGNAL  173 


IV 

"The  languid  lilies  tire 

The  changeless  waters  weary  me; 
I  ache  with  passionate  desire 

Of  thine  and  thee. 
There  are  but  these  things  in  the  world — 

Thy  mouth  of  fire, 
Thy  breasts,  thy  hands,  thy  hair  upcurled, 

And  my  desire." 

The  afternoon  seemed  ablaze  with  breathless  trop- 
ical heat.  Among  the  dark  burnished  foliage  of  the 
garden  the  enormous  dazzling  white  flowers  of  the 
magnolias,  brimming  with  a  perfume  that  was  like 
the  scent  of  lemons,  offered  their  purity  to  the  sun. 
The  slim  shafts  of  palms  rose  high  into  the  slum- 
berous air  tides.  Below,  the  flowers  rose  in  aspiring 
spikes  of  bloom,  or  spilled  themselves  over  the  brink 
of  the  oblong  tank,  lined  and  margined  with  mar- 
ble, where  motionless  pink  lotuses  grew — perfec- 
tion floating  upon  peace  like  the  soul  of  Buddha. 
There  were  breadths  and  close  places  of  heavy  shad- 
ow; little  slopes  and  spaces  of  shorn  grass,  smooth 
as  the  sides  of  a  groomed  horse.  A  pair  of  white 
peacocks,  with  delicately  crested  heads  and  trailing 
feather  trains,  paraded  like  some  ornate  product  of 
utter  luxury.  Pretty  tame  deer  moved  gracefully 


174      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

in  the  shaded  places,  and  there  was  a  faint  liquid 
murmur  of  water  running  in  narrow  marble  chan- 
nels through  the  garden  to  the  oblong  tank.  The 
place  might  have  been  a  portion  of  the  heaven  of 
Mohammed  instead  of  a  palace — paradise  of  Akbar 
the  Moghul.  On  all  its  four  sides  there  were  walls. 
Two  doors  only  gave  access  to  it,  and  no  window 
overlooked  it  save  one  round  turret  opening,  void 
as  the  socket  from  which  an  eye  has  been  plucked. 

At  the  head  of  the  tank,  behind  a  row  of  pillars, 
was  a  wide,  deep  alcove  communicating  with  the 
Zenana  by  a  single  door. 

All  those  gathered  in  the  tile-floored  coolness  be- 
hind the  pillars  were  very  quiet.  Sita  played  softly 
with  a  little  snake,  green  as  grass,  warding  him 
from  her  with  a  long  ebony  rod.  The  other  girls 
and  women  were  idle,  scarcely  speaking,  overawed 
by  the  man  who  sat  apart  entirely  heedless  of  them, 
motionless  and  somber.  The  tiny  splash  of  a  fish 
came  from  the  floor  of  the  tank. 

Suvona  the  dancer  yawned  elaborately.  She  was 
watching  the  Master  of  the  Zenana  out  of  the  cor- 
ner of  her  eye.  Her  spirit  was  hot  and  desperate, 
and  very  bitter,  but  she  had  herself  in  control.  He 
had  not  yet  spoken  to  her,  nor  looked  fully  at  her. 
She  observed  the  direction  of  his  steady,  unmoving 
glance,  and  an  idea  that  was  a  crude  species  of  test 
flickered  up  in  her  sensual,  not  over-subtle  mind. 


THE     SIGNAL 175 

Rising,  she  stepped  from  the  coolness  of  the  alcove 
into  the  blaze  of  the  afternoon  and,  standing  on  the 
brink  of  the  tank,  held  a  red  fan  above  her  head  to 
shield  herself  from  the  sun.  Standing  so  she  was 
directly  before  the  eyes  of  the  Lord  of  Life  and 
Death,  as  she  had  intended.  She  wore  only  a  trans- 
parent skirt  of  pinkish  silk,  and  her  golden  hair  was 
knotted  up  loosely.  Another  thought  occurred  to 
her. 

"Come  here  to  me,  thou  little  black  slave!"  she 
called  over  her  shoulder  to  her  negress. 

The  girl  came  obediently  and  crouched  down  be- 
side her  on  the  pink  marble. 

Suvona  was  satisfied.  She  always  looked  like  an 
exquisitely  modeled  statue  of  alabaster  beside  the 
negress.  She  turned  slightly  sideways,  knowing  that 
the  profile  of  her  neck,  breast  and  shoulder  was  per- 
fect. Underfoot  was  the  rose-colored  marble;  be- 
fore her  the  rose-pink  lotuses  slept  upon  the  sun- 
swept  lakelet,  and  her  transparent,  pinkish  skirt  was 
scarcely  a  garment  at  all.  The  picture  was  perfect. 
With  a  shake  of  her  head  her  loose  hair  fell  about 
her  naked  shoulders.  She  glanced  at  the  Master 
of  the  Zenana,  out  of  the  corners  of  her  paint-black- 
ened eyes.  He  was  looking  at  her. 

She  turned  slowly  and,  leaving  the  tank  margin, 
passed  back  between  the  slim  pillars  into  the  alcove, 
but  not  to  her  old  lounging  place.  Moving  in  a 


176      THE    SUTTEE    OF    SAFA 

sensuous  beauty-conscious  way  she  stepped  to  where 
the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  sat  rigidly  as  a  man  of 
stone;  then,  slipping  to  the  floor,  she  edged  toward 
him  with  a  smooth,  snaky  movement  until  her 
blonde  hair  touched  his  knee. 

"Will  not  my  lord  look  on  those  who  burn  to 
minister  to  him  and  who  live  only  in  the  fragrance 
of  his  presence?"  Her  low  voice  was  a  desirous 
murmur. 

Akbar  saw  the  fair,  sensual  face,  with  jet-black 
eyebrows  and  lashes,  that  was  raised  to  him.  A  per- 
fume came  to  him  from  her  hair  and  skin.  The 
lashes  were  lowered  over  long,  wanton  eyes  that 
were  utterly  shameless.  She  was  a  deliberate  provo- 
cation that  invited  openly. 

"When  thou  art  needed  thou  wilt  be  summoned. 
I  have  not  summoned  thee." 

His  voice  was  cold  as  steel  and  as  hard.  The 
world — his  world — had  held  one  woman  only  for 
the  last  fourteen  days.  The  lack  of  her  rendered 
his  nights  sleepless.  All  other  matters  were  exas- 
perating distractions,  or  trivial,  tedious,  unworthy 
of  consideration.  There  was  an  item  of  grave  secret 
news  in  the  background  of  his  mind  this  afternoon : 
it  was  a  matter  requiring  instant  and  decisive  hand- 
ling. Well,  it  had  not  come  to  him  till  the  hour  of 
the  noon  sleep,  and  presently  he  would  speak  with 
Asaf.  The  message  which  had  been  brought  to  his 


THE     SIGNAL 177 

apartment  by  a  Hindu  slave  girl  at  midnight  was  an 
event  of  infinitely  more  vast  import.  It  was  preg- 
nant with  the  possibility  of  fierce  joy.  As  the  day 
wore  toward  the  appointed  time  his  impatience  was 
like  a  wild  horse  fighting  against  the  curb.  The 
other  women  were  no  more  than  shadows,  or  slim, 
pretty  animals  moving  about  him;  Suvona  only -by 
her  intrusiveness  and  its  obvious  object  had  roused 
a  cold  distaste. 

The  blonde  dancer  was  huddled  down  now 
among  pillows,  her  face  hidden,  feigning  sleep ;  but 
she  was  rigid  with  hate  and  the  blind,  helpless  fury 
of  humiliation.  She  could  have  murdered  Akbar, 
or  any  or  all  of  the  other  women  about  her  who  had 
seen  and  heard.  Oh,  to  have  her  hands  upon  the 
devil  in  the  seven-roomed  summer-house !  To  be 
alone  with  her  for  just  one  hour  with  a  little,  sharp- 
edged  dagger! 

If  the  other  girls  and  women  present  had  not  been 
overawed  by  the  somber  self-containment  of  the 
man  who  was  their  master  there  would  have  been  a 
gust  of  tittering  at  the  complete  discomfiture  of  Su- 
vona, the  self-confident.  As  it  was,  there  was  a 
quick  exchange  of  glances;  some  mute  conversation 
carried  on  by  raisings  of  eyebrows  and  significant 
expressions.  Sita,  drawing  a  young  python  from  a 
flat  basket,  coiled  him  about  her  neck  and,  holding 
up  his  head,  just  touched  his  smooth,  cold  snout 


178      THE    SUTTEE    OF    SAP  A 

with  her  lips,  smiling  wickedly.  She  had  been  a 
favorite  herself  not  long  before,  but  cared  nothing 
now  for  men.  She  was  self-sufficient,  subtle  and 
cynical.  She  had  seen  Suvona  lying  on  the  breast 
of  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death,  receiving  every- 
thing she  asked  for;  pampered,  sated  with  passion, 
arrogant  as  a  popular  courtesan,  selfish  in  every 
bone  of  her  body ;  cruel  and  vain.  Now  Suvona  was 
huddled  among  those  pillows,  rejected  and  raging. 

"Bah!  Snakes  were  better  than  men,  and  com- 
fort better  than  both,"  Sita  murmured,  as  again  a 
minute  fish-splash  came  from  the  lily-tank,  a  re- 
peated sound  that  seemed  to  mark  the  slow  passage 
of  time. 

There  was  a  muffled  knocking  on  the  inner  side 
of  the  door  that  gave  access  to  the  Zenana.  At  a 
quick  sign  from  Akbar  one  of  the  women  rose 
hastily  and  opened  it.  An  old  duenna  stood  in  the 
doorway  salaaming. 

"Speak,"  commanded  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death. 

"Oh  Elephant  whose  shadow  covereth  the  earth, 
it  is  now  the  second  hour  after  the  noon." 

"Good.  Conduct  all  these  within,  mother.  Let 
the  inner  door  be  fastened,  and  if  any  seek  to  open 
it,  it  shall  be  death." 

Wondering  and  whispering,  the  Zenana  women 
rose,  picking  up  fans,  pet  snakes  and  Persian  kittens. 


THE    SIGNAL 179 

They  were  unceremoniously  shepherded  through  the 
doorway  by  the  duenna.  The  heavy  teakwood  door 
closed.  Akbar  went  to  it  and  the  lock  clicked.  A 
score  of  men  could  hardly  have  forced  that  locked 
door.  The  only  other  entrance  into  the  garden  was 
through  a  door  in  one  of  the  walls  guarded  on  the 
outer  side  by  armed  negro  mutes  with  special  and 
precise  instructions.  The  penalty  for  any  disobedi- 
ence or  forgetfulness  was  death.  Through  this  door 
Safa  would  be  admitted  into  the  garden.  .  .  . 

The  master  of  the  place,  standing  just  within  the 
alcove,  watched  and  waited,  passionately  impatient. 
Outside,  the  garden  lay  in  an  ecstatic  swoon  of 
sunshine.  The  seclusion  was  absolute,  inviolate. 

A  soft,  light,  indescribable  sound  came  to  him — 
it  was  the  approach  of  a  woman.  Safa,  coming 
slowly  along  the  narrow  path,  paved  with  slabs  of 
pink  marble,  with  the  scented  flowers  on  either  hand 
and  the  heavy,  broad,  blotched  shadows  of  the  mag- 
nolias overhead  and  underfoot,  was  curiously  dis- 
turbed. Inwardly  she  trembled  as  a  reflected  star 
trembles  upon  troubled  water,  but  this  tremulous- 
ness  was  sweeter  than  any  unstirred  calm.  Dan- 
gerously sweet.  And  she  was  weak,  too.  Her 
strength  of  spirit  seemed  to  have  gone  from  her. 
And  she  was  afraid  of  the  man  she  was  going  to 
face  .  .  of  herself.  Yet  she  would  not  have 


180      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

turned  back  even  if  she  could.  How  much  should 
she  tell  him  of  the  thing  she  knew?  And  then — 
there  was  the  signal.  .  .  . 

The  overpowering  lemon-scent  of  the  magnolia 
flowers  drugged  the  air;  the  fallen  petals  of  roses 
lay  upon  the  marble  path ;  hot  silence  held  the  heart 
of  the  garden  paradise.  The  curving  path  led  into 
an  open  space  where  the  sun  smote  an  oblong  sheet 
of  lotus-bearing  water,  and  Safa  saw  a  strong, 
squarely  built  man  standing  alone  at  the  threshold 
of  a  pillared  alcove. 

She  came  slowly  on,  seeing,  without  knowing  that 
she  saw  them,  the  pink  lotuses  crowding  upon  the 
surface  of  the  tank.  She  realized  suddenly  that  she 
did  not  know  just  what  it  was  that  she  was  going  to 
say.  As  she  came  nearer  the  words  that  were  in  her 
mind  seemed  to  leave  her. 

Now  she  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  alcove  close  to 
him,  facing  him.  He  did  not  speak.  She  looked 
aside  from  him,  not  able  to  meet  his  eyes.  The 
silence  was  terrible,  revealing  hidden  things  as  no 
speech  could  have  done.  She  burned  as  though  she 
were  naked  before  him.  She  must  speak. 

"My  lord's  garden  is  beautiful  as  paradise."  Her 
voice  was  low,  but  under  her  control. 

"My  paradise  is  a  wilderness  to  me,  Safa,  unless 
thou  wilt  share  it." 

He  also  spoke  low,  but  with  a  force  that  seemed 


THE    SIGNAL 181 

to  stamp  the  words  upon  her  soul.  She  parried  the 
direct  assault  quickly,  uncertainly. 

"Thou  hast  a  world  in  which  there  are  millions 
such  as  I." 

"Millions  such  as  thee!  Are  diamonds  scattered 
as  freely  as  the  wayside  stones  ?  Safa,  I  am  neither 
demi-god  nor  devil,  but  a  man  of  the  same  flesh  and 
blood  as  other  men.  I  love  thee.  There  is  my 
weakness  and  my  strength.  Since  the  hour  when  I 
first  saw  thee  my  nights  have  been  without  sleep 
and  my  days  a  desert.  All  other  women  have  be- 
come as  shadows  to  me." 

Safa  felt  as  though  she  were  standing  on  the 
sheer  brink  of  a  gulf.  Her  eyes  were  opened  and 
she  saw  that  at  the  bottom  of  the  gulf  lay  an  irre- 
vocable surrender — unimaginable  and  terrifying  in 
its  sweetness.  She  stood  perilously,  unsteadily  upon 
the  extreme  verge.  Almost  without  knowing  what 
she  said  she  answered  him. 

"Thou — thou  wouldst  not  speak  so  to  me  if  all 
that  I  am  and  all  that  I  have  been  were  known  to 
thee." 

His  instant  hot  reply  was  like  a  sword  stroke 
beating  down  defense. 

"I  care  not  what  thou  wert.  I  can  see  what  thou 
art.  Such  beauty  can  have  known  naught  but 
beauty." 

"Thy  generosity  is  worthy  of  thee.     I  thought 


182      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

thee  cruel.  When  a  woman  hath  sorrowed  much 
she  is  grateful  for  such  words,  my  lord." 

"Hast  thou,  then,  known  much  sorrow?" 

There  was  wonder,  almost  unbelief,  in  his  voice. 

"Only  one,  my  lord,  yet  it  hath  sucked  all  else 
from  my  life.  .  .  .  Thou  canst  not  know  how  bitter 
my  life  hath  been." 

He  came  closer  to  her.  They  were  face  to  face 
in  the  shadow  of  the  alcove.  Her  eyes  met  his  and 
she  saw  that  she  could  not  hold  him  from  her  for 
more  than  a  few  moments  longer.  An  exquisite, 
poignant  sensation,  shot  with  fear,  swept  over  her. 
He  was  speaking  again,  rapidly,  passionately,  a  re- 
sistless torrent  suddenly  loosed. 

"I  do  not  care  to  know.  What  is  it  to  me  if  the 
perfect  lotus  lily  once  harbored  a  worm?  I  love 
thee.  Tell  me  that  the  luster  of  the  Koh-i-noor  be- 
comes dim  beside  the  light  of  thine  eyes  and  I  will 
listen  to  thee.  I  love  thee !  Even  the  splendor  of 
the  sun  at  the  noon  of  day  is  but  a  jewel  which 
lights  upon  thy  head!  Wouldst  know  how  much  I 
love  thee?  As  God  liveth  I  will  hunger  and  thirst 
for  thee  no  longer !  .  .  .  Safa !  .  .  ." 

He  had  her  in  his  arms.  In  the  grip  of  his 
strength  and  passion  she  was  helpless  as  a  child. 
By  a  blind  instinct  she  had  avoided  the  contact  of 
his  lips.  She  felt  as  though  she  were  enveloped  in 
a  flame  of  exquisite  fire,  and  in  that  instant,  as  the 


THE    SIGNAL 183 

fierceness  of  his  passion  overcame  her,  she  knew 
that  she  loved  him.  As  he  held  her  she  saw  with 
a  feeling  that  was  almost  terror  how  the  inviolate 
solitude  of  the  garden  walled  them  in.  Dazed,  glow- 
ing, yielding  to  the  fierce  pressure  of  his  arms,  she 
was  swaying  upon  the  utter  verge  of  surrender — 
swaying — yielding  .  .  . 

A  faint,  unmistakable  human  sound — the  drag- 
ging shuffle  of  a  slipper  on  the  paved  path — came 
distinctly  through  the  breathless  stillness. 


Instinctively  the  two  standing  in  the  shadow  of 
the  alcove — the  man  and  the  woman  he  held — fell 
apart. 

Safa,  flushed,  breathing  quickly,  one  hand  at  her 
breast,  gazed  almost  apprehensively  in  the  direction 
of  the  sound,  bewildered  and  unsteady. 

The  man  who  for  an  instant  had  overpowered  her, 
body  and  spirit,  stood  tugging  unconsciously  at  his 
short,  crisp  beard.  It  would  not  be  well  for  who- 
ever had  dared  to  violate  the  intimacy  of  this  locked 
paradise  at  such  a  time. 

Out  into  the  open,  with  head  bent,  looking  neither 
right  nor  left,  shuffled  old  Girbur,  who  had  served 
Akbar  for  twenty-five  years  with  the  dumb,  incuri- 


184      THE    SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

ous  faithfulness  of  a  dog.  Never  lifting  his  eyes  he 
shuffled  on  to  within  six  feet  of  the  Master  of  the 
Zenana;  then  he  prostrated  himself  flat  on  the 
marble. 

"Oh  Lord  of  the  East  and  West,  by  thy  grace, 
the  mighty  Asaf  awaits  thy  bidding." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Had  it  been  any  other 
of  his  servants  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  might 
have  struck  before  the  man  could  have  spoken,  but 
it  was  Girbur,  whose  shoulders  were  rounded  with 
long  years  of  loyal  and  intimate  service.  The  mem- 
ory of  an  explicit  order  given  on  the  preceding  day 
and  unrevoked  because  forgotten  suddenly  returned. 
Girbur  was  without  blame  in  the  matter.  And  it 
would  not  be  an  ill  thing  if  this  Amir  should  see 
the  woman  here — alone  with  him.  The  report  of  it 
would  be  noised  abroad,  and  she  be  the  more  surely 
pledged  to  him. 

"Let  him  enter  here." 

The  order  was  curt,  but  controlled.  The  old  ser- 
vant rose  to  his  hands  and  knees,  straightened, 
salaamed  and  shuffled  off.  There  was  another 
silence. 

An  indefinable,  slight  shadow  was  upon  Safa's 
face.  .  .  .  Asaf  .  .  .  Asaf  .  ...  It  could  not  be  the 
same  .  .  . 

A  white  peacock,  spreading  its  tail  into  a  mon- 
strous fan,  gave  a  hoarse  jarring  scream.  A  man 


THE    SIGNAL 185 

had  come  from  under  the  magnolias  and  was  ap- 
proaching. A  tall,  bearded  Mohammedan,  deep- 
chested  as  a  powerful  horse,  he  was  burnt  almost 
to  the  blackness  of  a  Tamil.  As  he  neared  them 
Safa,  who  had  been  looking  toward  him,  stepped 
backward  into  the  deeper  shadow.  She  had  a  curi- 
ous, set  look,  but  made  no  other  sign.  She  was  un- 
veiled; the  shrouding  silken  drapery  had  slipped 
from  her  when  Akbar  took  her  in  his  arms.  With 
averted  face  she  waited  in  perfect  stillness  five  steps 
from  Akbar. 

The  tall,  sun-tanned  Amir,  who  was  without  or- 
nament save  for  his  jade  earrings,  saluted  the  Lord 
of  Life  and  Death  deferentially  but  without  abase- 
ment. In  a  certain  manner  he  was  handsome. 

From  a  distance  he  had  noted  the  unveiled  woman 
and  had  studiously  kept  his  eyes  from  her.  Akbar, 
still  tugging  at  his  crisp  beard,  spoke  to  the  pur- 
pose. 

"My  friend,  when  I  sent  word  to  thee  yesterday 
it  was  to  speak  of  small  things;  to-day,  a  little  be- 
fore noon,  I  received  news  of  a  greater  matter. 
Rajah  Adhiraj,  with  fifty  elephants  and  a  large  fol- 
lowing, lies  in  the  deer  forest  that  is  to  the  west  of 
the  city  and  he  proposes  to  attack  at  sunset." 

Safa  caught  her  breath  in  a  little  sharp  gasp. 
The  Mohammedan  captain  stiffened  instantly. 

"Peerless  One — is  this  certain  truth?" 


186      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

"Those  whom  I  employ  find  that  it  is  wiser  to 
avoid  falsehood." 

"Lord  of  India,  thy  mercy  hath  overflowed  its 
natural  boundaries  like  a  too-fruitful  river.  Why 
does  this  man  still  live?" 

"Hast  thou  not  discovered,  Asaf,  that  a  greater 
victory  lieth  in  the  humbling  of  foes  than  in  the  slay- 
ing of  them  ?  And  Adhiraj  hath  wedded  my  daugh- 
ter according  to  the  Hindu  rite.  To  strike  at  him 
is  to  destroy  her,  for  she  will  meet  her  suttee  at 
his  funeral  pyre.  'Tis  a  vile  and  hideous  custom. 
I  pity  her.  It  is  no  crime  to  love.  .  .  .  Asaf,  thou 
hast  rendered  me  loyal  service  for  more  years  than 
thou  and  I  care  to  remember — pay  homage  to  thy 
master's  enchantress." 

He  half  turned  toward  Safa,  indicating  her.  Her 
stillness  was  almost  rigidity  and  her  face  was  still 
averted. 

Without  a  word  the  tall  Amir,  bending  gravely, 
salaamed  to  her.  As  he  raised  his  head  he  looked 
for  the  first  time  full  at  the  woman  of  whose  pres- 
ence he  had  been  aware  throughout.  At  the  same 
moment  Safa,  compelled  by  the  very  greatness  of 
her  fear,  turned  her  averted  face  to  his.  Their 
eyes  met. 

The  man  confronted  a  woman  of  extraordinary 
beauty,  equally  of  flesh  and  spirit.  She  was  mar- 
velous, tragic.  And  a  ruby,  brighter  than  pigeon's 


THE     SIGNAL 187 

blood,  on  her  brow — yes,  it  was  the  same!  An  in- 
credibly perfect  oval  jewel  such  as  might  not  be  for- 
gotten even  in  seventeen  years  rested  at  the  joining 
of  her  brows. 

The  woman,  terrified,  looked  into  the  bold,  cal- 
lous eyes  that  for  many  years  had  haunted  her 
uneasy  sleep.  Hate,  shame  and  loathing  surged 
through  her.  As  the  recognition  leapt  into  his 
stare  she  strangled  a  sharp  cry.  The  pause  had  been 
only  a  matter  of  three  or  four  moments.  Akbar's 
voice,  imperious,  already  redolent  of  possessive 
pride,  came  abruptly: 

"Well,  Asaf,  what  thinkest  thou  of  this  Light  of 
Heaven?" 

"Peerless  One,  such  beauty  seemeth  to  me  like 
a  moon-lotus,  remembered  even  after  many 
years." 

"Thy  admiration  is  well  interpreted.  Go,  now, 
my  friend.  Let  these  rebels  be  surrounded  before 
they  are  prepared  to  plant  their  sting,  but  spare  all 
those  that  ask  for  mercy.  And  if  it  be  possible, 
secure  Adhiraj  alive.  Thou  hast  full  authority  in 
all  things,  as  ever." 

It  was  a  definite  dismissal.  As  Asaf  entered  the 
fragrant  shadowed  tunnel  where  the  path  ran  under 
the  magnolias  he  was  conscious  only  of  complete 
astonishment.  That  face  again!  After  seventeen 
years!  And  she  was  here  with  Akbar,  as  his  new- 


f!88      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

est  mistress.  What  a  child's  face  it  had  been  when 
he  saw  it  last;  extraordinarily  beautiful  even  then, 
and  wet  with  tears. 

He  had  come  to  a  sharp  turn  of  the  path.  Ahead 
lay  a  hot,  wide  band  of  sunshine,  and  full  in  the 
splash  of  light  stood  a  boy  clutching  a  naked  knife. 
It  was  Kama  Deva.  He  was  listening — listening  in- 
tently. Then  with  a  quick,  furtive  movement  he 
parted  the  stems  of  a  screen  of  young  bamboos  and 
disappeared.  There  was  a  slight  rustling  and  then 
warm  silence  save  for  the  lisp  of  a  thread  of  water 
running  in  a  marble  groove  beside  the  path. 

In  the  pillared  alcove  by  the  lotus  tank  Safa, 
shaken  to  the  depths  of  her  soul,  faced  Akbar  again 
alone.  Something  frozen  within  her  had  melted 
suddenly  into  liquid  flame  at  the  moment  when  he 
took  her  in  his  arms.  She  knew  that  now  she 
would — she  must — yield,  unless  .  .  . 

His  strong,  eager  hands  gripped  hers,  drawing 
her  to  him.  In  a  moment  he  would  kiss  her  lips. 
The  exquisite  danger  ravished  and  terrified  her. 
With  a  supreme  effort  she  looked  him  full  in  the 
eyes,  agonizingly  concentrating  the  power  of  her 
will. 

"Sleep  .  .  .  Sleep  .  .  ." 

She  whispered  it  more  with  her  mind  than  with 
her  lips.  They  were  standing  breast  to  breast.  A 
sudden  growing  warmth  thrilled  her  at  the  contact, 


THE     SIGNAL 189 

but  the  force  of  her  will  was  concerned  with  another 
matter. 

For  some  ten  seconds  the  stubborn  spiritual  con- 
test engaged  all  her  strength,  for  the  nature  of  the 
man  was  unyielding  as  steel,  and  he  was  wrought 
to  the  full  heat  of  passion.  Then,  abruptly,  the 
strain  relaxed,  as  when  one  of  two  wrestlers  sinks 
suddenly  in  the  struggle.  The  strange  power  had 
mastered  him.  His  grip  of  her  hands  loosened  and 
she  freed  herself  from  him  gently. 

"Sleep  is  the  loveliest  gift  of  the  Creator.  Sleep 
—Dream  .  .  ." 

She  spoke  slowly,  still  looking  him  in  the  eyes. 

The  man  drew  a  long,  slow  breath.  Safa  spoke 
in  a  deep,  inward  voice. 

"Yes  .  .  .  Yes  .  .  .  All  Hindustan  is  but  a  land 
of  dreams,  and  her  people  are  dreamers — dreamers 
all.  Legions  come  with  shouts  of  war ;  we  fight  and 
fight,  then  sit  and  dream  again.  The  Greek,  the 
Turk,  the  Arab  and  the  Afghan — they  pass  before 
us  like  the  shadows  of  the  night,  and  the  Indian, 
sitting  in  saffron  on  the  Ganges  banks  awaiting 
the  redemption  of  mankind,  dreams  on  ...  Oh 
precious,  precious  sleep  .  .  ." 

Presently  Safa  looked  up  from  where  she  sat 
holding  his  head  upon  her  knees.  The  man  was 
sleeping  profoundly.  Outside  the  quiet  was  un^ 
broken  even  by  the  splash  of  a  fish.  There  was  a 


190      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

new  look  in  the  woman's  eyes  and  about  her  mouth. 
Hitherto  Safa  had  feared  only  him  whose  sleep  she 
watched;  now  she  feared  herself.  As  she  held  his 
head  she  yearned  toward  him  with  an  intensity  that 
almost  terrified  her.  A  touch — a  momentary  con- 
centration of  the  will  would  waken  him  to  give  her 
all  for  which  her  strong,  suddenly-born  love  hun- 
gered. The  possibility  of  passionate  rapture  and 
imminent  tenderness,  more  wonderful  than  an  ar- 
dent dream,  swam  before  her  like  a  golden  mist. 
.  .  .  What  was  it  that  held  her  from  him? 

With  the  pitilessly  clear  sight  of  her  mind  she 
saw  a  room  in  a  palace  and  in  it  two  girl-queens, 
one  fear-struck,  desperate,  clutching  wildly  at  for- 
bidden life  .  .  .  and  the  callous,  amorous  eyes  of 
a  man  pleading,  promising  .  .  .  and  at  the  last  the 
chaste,  haughty  face  of  a  boy.  Oh  gods !  She  was 
sinful,  shamed  and  accursed!  .  .  .  And  yet  the 
mother  of  her  son.  Suddenly  the  slanted  shadow 
of  a  pillar  appealed  to  her  remembrance  as  though 
charged  with  some  sinister  significance.  .  .  .  She 
had  almost  forgotten  the  signal ! 

Very  cautiously  and  solicitously  she  disengaged 
herself  from  the  sleeping  man.  Was  the  appointed 
hour  past?  How  could  she  discover  it?  All  sense 
of  time  had  left  her  since  she  entered  the  garden. 

A  plain  ebony  rod  two  feet  long  lay  upon  the 


THE    SIGNAL 191 

pavement.  Sita  had  left  it  when  she  was  hurried 
into  the  Zenana  with  the  other  women.  Safa  saw 
it.  She  recalled  the  method  mentioned  in  the  mes- 
sage. Taking  it  she  fixed  it  upright,  one  end  planted 
in  a  crack  between  two  pavement  blocks  of  marble. 
From  its  base  to  the  sheer  brink  of  the  tank  was 
an  exact  two  feet,  and  its  shadow  was  now  only  a 
bare  three  inches  from  the  brink.  There  was  scant 
time  to  decide — only  till  that  slim  shadow  grew  to 
the  tank  edge.  Akbar  knew  of  Adhiraj,  but  not 
of  the  men  from  the  lands  of  Vickram;  their  force 
— withheld,  or  joined  to  his — must  decide  the  issue. 

Safa  knelt  by  the  upright  ebony  rod.  An  en- 
tranced, shimmering  calm  seemed  to  hold  the  world. 
Behind  her  the  sleeper  breathed  deeply  and  evenly. 
Once  she  turned  her  head  to  look  at  him — a  long 
look. 

"I  cannot  do  it.  'Tis — 'tis  treachery.  I'll  send 
the  signal  to  withdraw  them." 

A  quick,  cautious  footstep  sounded  and  Safa,  ris- 
ing instantly,  faced  Kama  Deva,  knife  in  hand.  The 
shock  was  more  violent  than  if  it  had  been  a  vision 
of  one  long  dead.  She  did  not  speak.  The  boy, 
tense  as  a  leopard  on  the  alert,  peered  sharply  about 
him.  Seeing  the  sleeper,  he  gave  him  a  keen, 
startled  scrutiny  and  came  close  to  her.  She  saw 
that  his  face  was  terribly  exultant,  coldly  savage, 


'192      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

and  in  his  eyes  there  was  a  light  like  the  bitter 
white  radiance  that  the  sun  smites  from  a  steel 
blade. 

"Oh  thou  wondrous  woman !  Sikandra  hath  told 
me  all — and  it  is  thy  work,  for  in  thy  name  they 
have  risen — my  father's  people — my  people!  Delhi 
will  fall  to-night,  but  Akbar  shall  die  now.  I  have 
sworn  it;  it  is  my  right.  Immediately  I  had  heard 
I  came  hither  like  a  thief,  fearing  he  might  die  by 
some  other  hand  in  the  sack  of  the  city.  Oh,  I  have 
lived  for  this  day!" 

Safa  heard  and  understood.  She  could  not  think 
or  reason.  Her  eyes  were  on  the  short,  keen-stab- 
bing blade  that  the  boy  clutched.  A  tiny  trickle  of 
wonder,  as  to  how  he  had  contrived  to  break  into 
the  garden,  wandered  through  her  mind.  They 
were  standing  at  the  brink  of  the  tank,  with  the 
heavy  magnolia  jungle  behind. 

When  he  questioned  her  as  to  the  appointed  hour 
of  the  attack  she  answered  mechanically,  telling  him 
all  she  knew,  even  to  the  signal  and  the  significance 
of  the  ebony  rod.  The  boy  listened  in  an  ecstasy 
of  revenge.  As  she  ceased  speaking  he  turned 
from  her  abruptly,  and  went  softly  over  to  the  sleep- 
ing man. 

Frantic  terror  seized  the  woman.  Oh  gods !  He 
must  not  .  .  . 

Kama  Deva,  after  a  long,   hungry,   fascinated 


THE     SIGNAL 193 

stare,  turned  toward  her  again.  His  eyes  were 
bright  as  fever,  and  his  nostrils  dilated.  He  spoke 
in  a  quick,  breathless  voice. 

"He  sleeps — the  tiger  sleeps.  He's  trapped.  He's 
caged.  See  how  the  shadow  lengthens  to  the  brink ! 
A  few  moments  more  and  our  five  thousand  men 
will  join  with  Adhiraj  !" 

Behind  them  there  was  a  violent  rustle  of  leaves 
as  someone  broke  out  into  the  marble-floored  open. 
As  Safa  turned  to  meet  him  she  knew  that  it  was 
Asaf.  The  climax  had  come.  Screening  the  boy 
from  him  she  said  calmly:  "What  hath  hastened 
thy  return  to  us,  Amir?" 

"Thy  treachery." 

She  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes. 

"Take  care.    My  weapons  are  as  sharp  as  thine." 

A  little  sneering  smile  twitched  the  man's  hard 
mouth. 

"What  weapons  hast  thou  that  could  do  me  any 
injury  ?" 

"Akbar's  love  of  justice  .  .  .  and  of  me." 

She  said  it  steadily.  The  boy  behind  her  drew  a 
sharp  breath,  and  she  felt  as  though  he  had  struck 
her  with  his  clenched  hand. 

"Wouldst  thou  threaten  me  ?" 

"Even  with  betrayal." 

"Betray  me,  then !" 

The  utter  callousness  in  his  voice  was  like  a  blow. 


194      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

The  next  moment  he  had  seized  Akbar  by  the  shoul- 
der. 

"Wake,  oh  King!    Awake!" 

And  then  the  woman  remembered  that  uncon- 
sciously she  had  withdrawn  her  will  from  the 
sleeper.  She  had  forgotten  to  maintain  her  do- 
minion of  him  in  the  stress  of  other  matters.  The 
power  could  not  always  be  summoned  to  meet  her 
need — and  it  was  now  too  late. 

The  sleeping  man  stirred  reluctantly  and  half 
turned ;  then,  becoming  suddenly  aware  of  the  heavy 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  he  struck  it  from  him  with 
an  inarticulate  exclamation  and  struggled  to  his  feet, 
dazed,  shaken  with  fierce,  instinctive  suspicion. 

"Who  dares— Asaf?  What  is  it?  What  doth 
this  mean?" 

The  man  who  had  wakened  him  spoke  rapidly, 
an  accusing  arm  flung  out  toward  Safa. 

"Peerless  One,  this  woman  whom  thou  hast 
trusted  hath  conspired  with  Adhiraj  against  thy 
precious  life.  As  I  left  thee  I  saw  this  Vickram 
cub  lurking  like  an  assassin  in  the  garden.  Fear- 
ing evil  to  thee,  I  spied  upon  him  and  overheard  the 
full  tale  of  their  treachery  as  he  spoke  with  the 
woman." 

Akbar  was  looking  at  Safa.  Her  face,  as  he  last 
remembered  it,  had  been  close — very  close — to  his, 


THE     SIGNAL 


raised  a  little,  and  that  beautiful  mouth  was  at  his 
mercy.  He  was  bewildered.  Safa  saw  it.  She 
struck  desperately  with  the  sole  weapon  that  re- 
mained to  her. 

"Hear  me,  my  lord — hear  me !  This  man  speaks 
in  malice!  He  ruined  me — ruined  my  life  when  I 
was  young  and  helpless — a  child  not  twelve  years 
old!  Such  as  he  are  begotten  by  devils,  not  by 
men!  It  was  the  deed  of  a  devil!  I  will  tell  thee 
how  I  have  been  abused !" 

The  shame,  the  terrible  hate  and  the  bitterness 
that  had  been  dumb  within  her  for  seventeen  years 
had  found  a  voice.  She  flung  out  her  quivering 
arms  toward  the  man  who  had  wakened  her  to  a 
passion  of  love.  Her  eyes  were  like  dark  stars. 

"My  lord,  she  delays.  When  the  shadow  of  that 
rod  which  she  hath  set  upright  hath  reached  the 
tank  edge  five  thousand  men  who  fight  in  her  name 
will  join  their  force  to  Adhiraj.  Unless  she  sends 
a  signal  before  that  shadow  reaches  the  lip  of  the 
pool  naught  can  stay  them — it  is  a  matter  of  mo- 
ments, Peerless  One  .  .  .  This  signal  is  a  sending 
of  the  spirit — some  Yogi  work.  She  told  the  boy 
of  it ;  I  heard  the  full  plot." 

He  had  paid  no  more  heed  to  the  passionate  ac- 
cusation of  himself  than  if  she  had  kept  silent.  He 
spoke  rapidly,  urgently,  with  quick,  sure  gestures. 


Akbar  frowned.  Still  looking  at  Safa,  he  spoke 
slowly,  reluctantly,  in  the  manner  of  one  expecting 
a  strong  and  confident  denial. 

"Is  it  true?" 

The  tragic  eyes  of  the  woman  were  raised  to  his. 

There  was  a  silence. 

Behind  her  the  boy  spoke  sharply  and  suddenly: 
"Be  proud  to  own  the  truth!" 

She  lowered  her  eyes  and  said  it  tonelessly: 
"Yes." 

The  hand  of  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  clenched 
on  his  dagger  hilt  with  a  spasmodic  clutch.  Red 
fury  seized  him,  blind  and  bitter,  for  he  loved  her 
with  all  his  strength. 

"So — so — "  he  said  thickly,  "by  thine  own 
acknowledgment  thou  art  a  traitress !  I  have  poured 
niy  soul  into  thine  ears  to  nourish  a  serpent  that 
would  strike  at  me!  As  God  liveth!  ..." 

His  clenched  hand  went  up  as  though  to  strike 
her.  Involuntarily  she  turned  and  caught  at  Kama 
Deva's  arm  that  had  been  suddenly  raised  against 
Akbar.  He  saw  the  movement  and  a  streak  of  scar- 
let flashed  before  his  sight  as  an  insensate  jealousy 
clutched  him  by  the  throat. 

"It  is  this  misbegotten  cub  thou  lovest!  This 
puny,  snapping  cur  whose  beardless  face  attracts 
thy  kisses!  Then — be  it  so!  I  offered  thee  my 
love — thy  answer  is  war !  Let  it  be  war !  Thy  life 


THE    SIGNAL 197 

is  in  my  power — give  the  signal  to  withdraw  thy 
force!" 

"Oh !    Let  me  speak " 

"The  signal — the  signal!" 

Safa  stood  between  the  furious  man  and  the 
proud,  hard-lipped  boy,  unflinching  as  a  shaft  of 
stone. 

"I  will  not  do  it." 

"Once  more — the  signal!" 

"I  will  not  do  it." 

"Then  I  will  find  a  means  to  make  thee!  Seize 
this  cub,  Asaf !" 

In  a  flash  the  powerful  Amir  had  the  boy  by  the 
arms.  Kama  Deva  fought  against  him  like  a  young 
lion  caught  in  a  net,  but  the  older  man  was  twice  as 
heavy  and  hardened  almost  to  iron  by  twenty  years 
of  war.  As  they  struggled  grimly  with  each  other 
the  woman  caught  her  breath  sharply ;  once  her  hand 
went  to  her  throat  as  though  she  were  choking.  In 
three  or  four  moments  Kama  Deva,  breathing 
quickly  through  distended  nostrils,  confronted  Ak- 
bar,  his  arms  bound  behind  him  with  Asaf's  tas- 
seled  sash. 

"Take  him  to  the  turret — thou  knowest  what  to 
do — and  put  him  to  the  test." 

"It  shall  be  done,  Peerless  One.  Here,  go  be- 
fore me,  young  spawn  of  treachery !" 

Drawing  his   dagger  he  drove  the  boy  at  the 


198     THE    SUTTEE    OF    SAFA 

point  of  it  to  the  heavy  door  which  led  into  the 
Zenana.  The  Amir  unlocked  it  and  it  swung  in- 
ward without  a  sound.  Behind  it  was  a  second 
door,  shut  fast ;  then  came  the  steep  steps  of  a  nar- 
row stair.  Asaf  and  his  captive  crossed  the  dark 
threshold  and  were  soon  swallowed  from  sight  as 
they  began  to  ascend  the  staircase.  The  muffled 
sound  of  their  feet  came  dimly. 

"What  wouldst  thou  do  with  him?" 

The  fear  in  the  woman's  voice  was  pitiful.  The 
Lord  of  Life  and  Death  gave  a  short,  savage  laugh. 
For  the  time  being  he  was  less  a  man  than  a  fierce 
animal,  exasperated  to  madness  and  utterly  with- 
out mercy. 

"Dost  thou  love  him  well?  We  will  see  how 
much  his  life  is  worth  to  thee !" 

"His  life !    Take  not  his  life !    The  fault  is  mine!" 

"Then  thou  shalt  save  him  and  by  the  deed  re- 
deem thy  fault." 

There  was  a  slight  sound  above  them.  Catching 
her  by  the  wrist  he  drew  her  out  to  the  unshaded 
paved  space  at  the  head  of  the  tank. 

"Look  up,"  commanded  Akbar. 

Above  the  pillared  alcove  a  single  cupola-roofed 
turret  jutted  out  from  the  blank,  forty-foot  marble 
wall.  In  it  was  a  round  window  opening,  and 
through  this  opening  came  a  dark,  bowed  head — • 
Kama  Deva's.  Instantly  a  huge,  cleaver-shaped 


THE    SIGNAL 199 

blade,  broad  and  bright  as  an  axe,  swung  down- 
ward, checked,  and  hung  quivering  two  or  three 
inches  above  the  boy's  bared  neck.  After  a  mo- 
ment or  two  it  rose  and  dropped  again,  falling  a 
shade  lower. 

Akbar's  grip  on  her  wrist  tightened  cruelly. 

"See — see  how  the  knife  falls!  Nearer  and 
nearer  to  the  neck  thou  wouldst  caress !" 

The  woman  cowered  from  him,  covering  her  eyes 
with  her  hand. 

"Oh  hideous — hideous!    I  cannot  look  upon  it!" 

"Wilt  thou  give  the  signal?  A  moment  hence 
there  will  be  naught  save  a  headless  trunk  for  thine 
embrace." 

A  shuddering,  inarticulate  cry  came  from  her. 
She  had  sunk  to  her  knees,  distraught.  The  voice 
went  on,  brutal,  gloating,  sparing  her  nothing,  with 
a  kind  of  deliberate  savagery. 

"Wilt  thou  not  watch  it?  There  is  no  uncertain 
aim.  One  heavy  strike  and  the  blood  runs  from  a 
deep,  gaping  gash — another  and  the  head  is  off.  It 
will  fall  right  at  thy  feet !" 

Tearing  herself  away  from  him,  Safa  stood  sud- 
denly erect,  her  eyes  dilated  with  a  horror  beyond 
words. 

"No,  no !— not  that— not  that !" 

She  had  reached  the  utmost  limit  of  her  endur- 
ance, of  her  self-control. 


"Then — wilt  thou  give  it  now?" 

"Anything — anything!    But  spare  him!" 

"No — I  command !"  was  hurled  in  a  sudden,  pas- 
sionate cry  from  the  boy  himself. 

Safa's  hand  went  to  her  throat.  Her  brow  con- 
tracted in  an  ecstasy  of  agony. 

"Oh  gods!— what  shall  I  do?" 

"Avenge  my  father!"  came  from  the  vehement 
young  voice,  fiercely  insistent.  There  was  not  a 
quiver  of  fear  in  it. 

The  woman  flung  out  her  hands  as  though  plead- 
ing to  him. 

"I  must — I  must  save  thee!" 

"I'll  hate  thee  if  I  live!" 

With  silent,  sickening  sureness  the  knife,  which 
had  risen  a  moment  before,  dropped  again — so  low 
that  the  edge  appeared  to  graze  the  naked  neck. 
Safa's  outstretched  hands  clutched  together  and  her 
answer  broke  from  her  almost  in  a  scream. 

"I — must  save  thee!" 

"I'll  kill  thee!" 

The  knife  lifted  for  another  fall. 

"The  last  stroke  is  near.    The  signal — now!" 

It  was  the  man  beside  her  who  spoke — quickly. 

"Yes — yes — I  will!"  She  said  it  in  a  dry,  gasp- 
ing whisper,  turning  a  little  toward  him. 

"I  swear  to  kill  thee!"  It  was  the  boy's  cry, 
quivering  with  frantic  anger. 


THE     SIGNAL 201 

Safa's  hand  went  to  her  forehead,  uncertainly. 
Her  eyes  closed.  Her  hand  dropped.  She  stood 
like  a  figure  entranced,  her  face  slightly  raised.  The 
breathing  life  behind  the  beauty  of  her  seemed  to 
retire,  leaving  her  a  statue-woman  adorned  with 
gems  that  glowed  like  fresh  blood  and  sparkled  like 
tiny  crystals  of  ice. 

Akbar,  a  couple  of  steps  from  her,  watched  her 
with  a  kind  of  fear.  The  shadow  of  the  ebony  rod 
just  reached  the  brink.  The  silence  was  absolute. 

With  a  long  shudder  and  a  catch  of  the  breath, 
Safa's  eyes  opened.  She  swayed  as  though  from 
weakness,  her  knees  giving  way  beneath  her,  as  the 
man  caught  her  and  held  her  up. 

"I — have  spoken.  They — will  not  fight  against 
thee!" 

Her  head  fell  back  upon  his  shoulder  and  her 
eyes  closed  again. 


ASAF 
I 

IN  a  narrow,  semi-circular  turret  room  with  one 
round  window  opening,  beyond  which  the  sun- 
shine smote  the  broad,  glossy  leaves  of  mag- 
nolias, a  man  and  a  boy  stood  near  together  in  the 
circumscribed  space. 

Asaf  roughly  unbound  Kama  Deva's  arms.  "By 
my  beard!  thy  stars  have  been  propitious.  Thou 
hast  escaped  most  narrowly  from  death."  He  spoke 
grudgingly. 

"I  would  have  chosen  death,"  replied  the  boy, 
who  was  furious  and  unstrung.  Asaf,  with  folded 
arms,  looked  him  curiously  up  and  down. 

"What  is  thy  name?" 

"Kama  Deva,  last  of  all  the  Vickrams." 

"Yea,  I  know  that  is  thy  claim,  but  it  was  thought 
that  the  line  of  Vickrams  ended  when  the  last  Rajah 
died  in  the  sack  of  his  city." 

"That  is  false.    Look  here !" 

With  quivering  hands  the  boy  tore  open  his  tunic 
at  the  neck,  baring  his  breast.  A  circular  tattoo 

203 


204      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

mark  of  an  indigo-blue  tint  stood  out  sharply  upon 
the  golden-hued  skin  that  was  hairless  as  the  face 
of  a  girl.  Asaf  stared  at  it  a  moment. 

"A  tiger's  paw !  The  seal  of  the  Vickrams."  He 
took  a  step  backward,  his  face  darkening. 

"Yes,  it  is  as  I  saw  it  on  the  day  when  Vickram 
fell.  ...  I  thought  that  I  had  slain  him,  but  as  he 
lay  at  my  feet  his  right  hand  moved,  tearing  at  his 
garment  until  he  had  laid  bare  his  breast  with  that 
same  sign  upon  it;  then,  with  his  stiffening  fingers 
turned  inward  toward  the  mark,  he  sat  up  straight, 
blind,  bleeding,  and  gasped  'Revenge1  at  me.  Then 
he  fell  back  dead.  It  was  most  horrible." 

For  the  moment  Asaf  had  forgotten  the  presence 
of  the  boy  as  he  muttered  his  remembrance  in  his 
crisp,  black  beard. 

Kama  Deva,  listening,  stared  at  him  as  a  creature 
might  stare  at  a  snake,  paralyzed  by  the  very  enor- 
mity of  what  he  had  heard.  His  right  hand  felt 
blindly  for  the  handle  of  his  dagger.  Asaf  saw 
the  movement  and  understood  it. 

"Enough  of  that !    Son  of  a  dog !    Get  hence." 

Tall,  broad  and  powerful  as  any  big,  heavily- 
framed  animal,  Asaf  seemed  to  fill  the  narrow  place. 
A  growth  of  jet  black  hair  was  visible  on  the  outer 
side  of  his  forearms.  A  heavy  curved  sword  hung 
at  his  flank. 

Kama  Deva  looked  at  him  silently.    His  beautiful 


ASAF 205 

face  was  hard  as  a  mask  cut  from  amber  marble. 
It  was  as  though  he  were  taking  within  himself 
some  wordless,  terrible  and  irrevocable  oath.  Then 
he  turned  from  him  and  went  slowly  out,  with  his 
head  lifted  proudly.  The  sound  of  his  feet  upon 
the  stair  came  distinctly  in  the  quiet.  A  bee  hummed 
in  through  the  round  window  of  execution,  carrying 
the  yellow  dust  of  flowers.  Asaf  followed  the  boy 
heavily  out  of  the  turret,  cursing  him  as  the  snap- 
ping cub  of  a  dead  traitor. 

Safa's  consciousness,  which  had  all  but  left  her 
after  her  spirit-sending,  crept  back  very  gradually. 
She  became  aware  that  she  was  lying  at  full  length 
among  cushions  with  some  one  near  her  who  moved 
slightly  from  time  to  time — breathing  heavily.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  she  was  rising  from  the  depths 
of  deep  waters  to  a  broadening  light  which  she 
feared,  for  the  blank  gulfs  were  merciful,  immers- 
ing the  exhausted  mind  and  body  in  bottomless  pools 
of  peace,  as  soothing  as  the  arms  of  an  unseen 
mother  cradling  her  child  upon  her  breast.  But  the 
light  broadened  more  and  more,  and  as  she  rose 
toward  it  irresistibly  her  fear  increased.  .  .  .  Now 
she  had  reached  the  surface  and  she  knew  that  there 
was  daylight  about  her.  Involuntarily  her  eyes 
opened,  meeting  the  gaze  of  the  man  who  leaned 
above  her. 


206      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

At  the  sight  of  him  full  memory  flashed  over  her. 
She  shuddered  from  head  to  foot,  pain  clothing  her 
like  a  garment. 

"Have  I — have  I  been  long  thus?"  Her  voice 
was  low  and  uncertain. 

"No.    Art  thou  sick,  Safa?" 

"Not  sick.  It  is  always  thus  with  me  after 
the  sending  of  my  will.  It  will  pass  in  a  short 
while." 

She  lay  looking  up  at  him  in  silence  and  then 
spoke  again,  painfully. 

"I  cannot  bear  that  thou  shouldst  judge  me  as 
thou  hast — that  thou  shouldst  think  I  would  work 
treacherously  against  thee.  I  did  not.  This  thing 
was  planned  without  my  knowledge  or  consent. 
When  they  brought  me  word  of  it  and  of  my  share 
in  it  I  sent  my  handmaid  to  procure  me  speech  with 
thee,  and  when  I  came  hither  to-day  it  was  to  give 
thee  warning.  .  .  .  Dost  thou  believe  me  ?" 

Akbar,  who  knelt  on  one  knee  beside  her,  looked 
down  at  her  with  hot,  hungry  eyes. 

"I  cannot  do  otherwise  save  believe  thee,  Safa. 
.  .  .  Thou  art  too  beautiful.  If  I  were  but  certain 
that  thou  hast  not  given  thy  kisses  to  that  Vickram 
whelp!  .  .  ." 

His  voice  rose  hoarsely,  harshly,  and  Safa  saw 
how  the  veins  stood  out  upon  his  forehead.  She 
could  almost  have  laughed  hysterically,  but  the 


ASAF 207 

piercing  mental  pain  she  suffered  strangled  the  over- 
wrought impulse  and  filled  her  eyes  with  tears. 

"Oh  thou  art  mistaken !  Indeed  thou  art.  I  ... 
do  love  him — but  as  a  young  brother.  He  is  only 
a  child.  Canst  thou  not  see  that  I  speak  the  truth 
to  thee?" 

She  half  rose  on  her  elbow  with  all  the  naked  pain 
of  her  soul  in  her  eyes,  and  Akbar,  looking  at  her, 
saw  that  it  was  true.  He  bent  nearer  to  her  and 
was  about  to  speak,  but  Safa  raised  herself  to  her 
knees  among  the  cushions,  holding  up  her  hand  with 
a  quick,  arresting  gesture,  listening  intently.  Be- 
fore her,  as  she  knelt  among  the  satin  pillows,  the 
horseshoe  arches  and  slim  columns  of  the  alcove 
set  the  sunny  paradise  beyond  them  in  a  fragile,  ala- 
baster frame.  The  marble  pavement,  pink  as  a  rosy 
shell,  was  polished  like  a  mirror.  From  somewhere 
within  the  shut  Zenana  behind  them  came  the  muf- 
fled, mellow  plucking  of  some  stringed  instrument. 
It  was  like  looking  upon  a  garden  of  the  gods  from 
a  pavilion  of  idyllic  delights,  where  war  and  death 
and  sorrow  were  things  unbelievable.  Yet  in  the 
turret  above  them  hung  the  knife  of  execution.  Her 
own  heart  was  bruised  almost  to  breaking,  and  now 
her  intuition  was  telling  her,  urgently,  insistently, 
that  she  must  go  to  that  deer  forest  outside  the  city 
where  presently  there  would  be  a  killing  of  many 
men.  She  had  learned  never  to  disregard  that  ur- 


208     THE    SUTTEE    OF    SAFA 

gent  inner  voice,  for  it  spoke  always  for  him  who 
was  flesh  of  her  flesh  and  bone  of  her  bone. 

It  was  only  a  moment  or  two  before  she  spoke 
again. 

"My  lord,  is  it  possible  for  me  to  go  to  that  place 
where  Rajah  Adhiraj  is  encamped  ?  I  feel — I  know 
that  there  will  be  some  need  of  me.  .  .  .  Thou 
canst  send  me  guarded  if  thou  fearest  any  treachery, 
but  if  it  be  possible  I  must  go — immediately." 

She  rose  to  her  feet,  unsteadily,  and  he  rose  also, 
consuming  her  always  with  his  eyes.  There  was  a 
short  silence. 

The  man  did  not  seek  to  fathom  this  sudden  and 
very  strange  request  He  turned  it  about  curiously 
in  his  mind,  considering  it  only  as  it  bore  upon  his 
own  desires.  Yes,  she  should  go  if  she  wished  it — 
but  in  his  company.  He  also  desired  somewhat  to 
be  present  at  the  rout  of  these  rebels.  And  after- 
wards neither  man  nor  god  nor  devil  should  hold 
him  from  her. 

"The  wishes  of  Safa,  Queen  of  Women,  shall  be 
a  law  to  him  to  whom  they  are  expressed.  Asaf 
hath  not  yet  left  the  city.  We  will  accompany  him 
—thou  and  I." 


A  SAP  209 


II 

An  elderly,  crimson-turbaned  man  was  sitting 
cross-legged  in  the  flickering  shade  of  a  cluster  of 
bamboos.  Before  him  a  patch  of  bare  earth  had 
been  swept  smooth  and  clean ;  a  three- foot  stick  was 
planted  upright,  and  a  white  line  had  been  drawn 
upon  the  ground,  toward  which  the  slim  shadow 
lengthened,  just  touching  it  now  as  with  a  finger- 
tip. 

If  Mulhar  Rao  was  not  actually  asleep  he  was  so 
near  to  that  condition  that  he  trod  closely  upon  its 
silent  heels.  Forced  marches  and  broken  nights 
spent  in  the  open  are  bad  for  a  stout  village  head- 
man. Above  him  the  million  leaves  of  the  bamboos 
whispered  to  each  other  the  faint  stories  borne  to 
them  by  the  forest  winds.  Their  myriad  murmuring 
voices  were  in  the  slight  ceaseless  touch  of  leaf  on 
leaf. 

Mulhar  Rao  was  treading  again  the  single  street 
of  his  birth  village.  Now  he  was  not  Mulhar  Rao, 
but  a  holy  mendicant  with  ropes  of  false  hair  hang- 
ing down  his  naked  back.  And  his  milch  cow,  Muti, 
came  down  the  street  toward  him  with  her  calf  be- 
hind her.  He  knew  that  she  was  an  incarnation  of 
Kali,  and  groveled  in  the  dust  to  worship  her,  offer- 
ing her  a  sandalwood  box  containing  a  European 


210      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

hand-mirror.  Then  someone  spoke  to  him  saying, 
"Do  not  join  thy  force  to  Rajah  Adhiraj ;  do  not 
join  thy  force  to  Rajah  Adhiraj.  .  .  .  Do  not.  .  .  . 
Do  not.  .  .  ." 

He  knew  who  it  was  that  spoke  as  he  pressed 
his  face  into  the  dust  of  the  village  street,  but  even 
as  he  did  so  he  became  aware  that  he  had  slept  and 
was  now  waking.  The  voice  still  spoke  to  him,  in- 
sistent and  actual.  Mumbling  a  disjointed  and  hum- 
bly apologetic  greeting,  he  scrambled  stupidly  to  his 
feet.  He  was  alone.  The  little  space  shut  in  by 
jungle  thickets  was  empty  save  for  himself  and  the 
stick  planted  in  the  cleared  circle.  He  saw  that  the 
shadow  had  fully  reached  the  mark. 

Mulhar  Rao  began  to  comprehend  the  thing  that 
had  happened.  He  felt  bewildered,  elated,  vastly 
important  and  not  a  little  afraid.  There  was  not  a 
shadow  of  doubt  in  his  mind.  Safa  had  spoken 
from  Delhi  and  he  had  heard  her  voice.  There  re- 
mained only  to  obey  and  to  spread  abroad  the  won- 
der that  had  befallen  him.  He  stood  for  two  or 
three  moments  contemplating  the  stick  and  its 
shadow  with  scared  satisfaction,  and  then  forced  his 
way  out  through  the  close  thickets. 

It  was  the  single  cell  of  a  little  forsaken  tempie- 
hermitage,  once  the  shrine  of  a  forgotten  forest 
deity  served  by  two  hermit  Brahmins,  the  last  of 


ASAF an 

whom  had  died  half  a  lifetime  ago.  The  small  stone 
room  was  dim,  for  it  was  windowless,  and  the  open 
front  of  it  looked  out  into  the  close,  tangled  riot  of 
the  forest,  surging  up  to  the  very  threshold. 

The  figure  of  the  god  was  still.  The  place  had 
been  swept  and  a  thick,  bright  rug  was  laid  on  the 
ancient  floor.  Two  women  sat  in  the  faint  musty 
dimness  before  the  god — Dil-Khusha  and  a  very 
aged  crone.  Little  Dil-Khusha,  bejewelled  and  per- 
fumed like  a  delicate  small  flower,  leaned  forward 
watching  the  other  with  strange  eyes.  A  subdued, 
settled  sadness  dwelt  on  her  child-face. 

The  aged  woman  was  very,  very  old.  Her  arms 
and  legs  were  like  brown  sticks,  dry,  stiff  and  brittle 
as  the  limbs  of  a  mummy.  A  shock  of  coarse  white 
hair  fell  round  the  shrivelled  jaw-sunken  face  in 
which  only  the  eyes  had  life.  A  single  cotton  sheet 
was  drawn  shroud-like  about  her.  She  was  speak- 
ing in  an  old,  old  voice  that,  like  her  body,  was  well 
nigh  worn  out. 

"My  child,  long,  long  ago  I  was  even  as  thou  art 
— rounded  and  soft  as  the  petal  of  a  flower,  with 
hair  like  a  veil  of  midnight  blackness.  I  loved  the 
hooped  gold  on  my  wrists  and  ankles,  the  sweet 
cakes  and  the  thoughts  of  motherhood,  even  as  thou 
dost.  At  five  years  old  I  was  betrothed  to  a  boy 
of  seven,  and  when  I  had  reached  twelve  years  and 
the  marriage  was  about  to  be  consummated,  on 


212      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

that  same  day  my  husband  was  bitten  by  a  snake 
and  died,  and  I  became  his  virgin  widow.  It  was  a 
bitter  thing,  was  it  not?  I  used  to  watch  the  lotus 
flowers  turn  from  white  to  brown  and  die  away, 
comparing  them  to  myself  as  I  was  living  out  my 
warm  youth  in  barrenness  and  declining  to  a  sterile 
age.  I  hungered  and  thirsted,  suffering  in  my 
spirit  what  those  lost  in  a  desert  without  water  suf- 
fer in  their  bodies,  for  all  things  budded  and  bore 
save  I  alone,  and  I  was  still  so  young.  That  is 
long,  long  ago,  for  I  have  lived  the  length  of  three 
lives  and  more.  Then  I  put  aside  from  me  all  those 
things  which  men  and  women  seek  for  and  enjoy — 
those  things  of  which  the  tissue  of  their  lives  is  made 
— and  I  went  into  the  lonely  places  of  the  trees,  with- 
out fear  of  life  or  death  or  of  the  want  of  food.  I 
found  rest;  my  eyes  were  opened,  and  I  gathered 
knowledge  as  one  gathers  berries  from  a  bush.  .  .  . 
My  child,  all  which  thou  dost  see  and  hear  and  feel 
and  suffer  is  no  more  than  the  flicker  of  sunshine 
and  shadow  upon  a  stone  in  the  forest.  Those 
things  which  men  account  real  and  true,  which  they 
see  with  their  eyes  and  touch  with  their  hands,  are 
of  less  substance  than  the  dreams  of  their  sleep. 
Those  other  things  which  they  account  foolish  and 
bodiless  and  unreal  have  more  reality  than  a  moun- 
tain of  granite  or  the  armies  of  a  king.  We  are  like 
a  child  looking  down  into  a  lake  in  which  are  re- 


A  SAP  213 

fleeted  stars  and  trees  and  cities;  thinking  in  our 
foolishness  that  they  are  indeed  what  they  seem,  and 
that  the  grass  and  flowers  and  fruit-bearing  trees 
about  us  are  but  the  reflections  of  those  others  in 
the  lake.  But  I  have  raised  my  eyes  from  the  de- 
ception of  the  still  water;  I  have  seen  the  flowers 
and  have  eaten  the  fruit;  turning  from  that  which 
is  not  to  that  which  is."  The  worn  out  voice  ceased. 

Dil-Khusha  spoke  softly:  "I  do  not  understand, 
mother,  but  it  soundeth  true." 

"It  is  the  truth.  Thou  dost  mot  find  it  in  the 
bazaars  or  in  the  temples  or  in  the  ways  where  men 
walk.  But  in  the  naked  places  of  the  ancient  rocks 
it  comes  upon  one,  treading  more  softly  than  a 
jackal.  In  the  hidden  lost  pools  of  the  forest  one 
may  see  it  as  the  twinkle  of  green  light  in  a  dark 
emerald ;  in  the  stone  chambers  of  tree-buried  cities 
older  than  the  forest  it  lairs  like  the  wolves.  Some- 
times it  broods  above  an  aged  skull,  and  sometimes 
above  the  silver  and  copper  ornaments  of  dead 
women.  Often  times  it  crouches  upon  the  knees  of 
an  unworshipped  idol.  I  have  sought  truth  in  its 
hiding  places  for  seventy  years,  and  now  I  can 
scarcely  see  even  thy  face,  my  child,  and  can  scarcely 
walk  at  all,  but  soon  I  shall  seek  it  with  the  clear- 
visioned  eyes  of  a  redeemed  soul."  As  she  ceased 
speaking  she  rose  up  and  crept  totteringly  out  of  the 
shrine. 


THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

Dil-Khusha,  alone,  sat  very  still,  feeling  rather 
than  thinking.  To  sit  silent  in  the  old  hermit-shrine 
brought  a  sense  of  isolation  as  though  she  were  in 
an  island  cave  lost  in  the  wandering  wastes  of  an 
unknown  sea.  The  dimness  had  a  greenish  tinge. 
An  undercurrent  of  faint,  furtive  sounds  and  move- 
ments flowed  beneath  the  absolute  quiet.  The  stone 
cell  was  cool  as  a  grave.  It  was  difficult  to  realize 
that  the  forest  was  of  no  great  extent,  and  barely  an 
hour's  ride  from  Delhi.  The  aged  woman,  who  was 
gone,  abode  in  a  shelter  of  branches  hard  by  the 
shrine. 

Dil-Khusha  unknowingly  began  to  turn  one  of 
her  armlets  slowly  round  upon  her  bare  arm.  .  .  . 
What  gulfs  separated  the  present  from  the  past !  A 
month  ago  she  had  been  a  child  in  her  father's  Ze- 
nana, a  world  of  marble  walls  and  Persian  roses; 
she  was  utterly  ignorant  of  men.  Now  she  was  a 
woman  in  the  war  camp  of  her  husband,  living,  suf- 
fering and  fearing  for  one  man.  A  little  smile  flick- 
ered on  her  lips  as  a  picture  came  to  her  of  Drau- 
padi — Draupadi  with  her  betel-nut  and  silver  spit- 
toon— set  down  in  such  a  place  as  this.  The  help- 
lessness and  consternation  of  the  stout  Rajput  Rani 
would  be  almost  tragic.  Then  she  wished  suddenly 
that  it  could  be  so,  for  Draupadi  had  been  almost 
a  mother  to  her.  The  strange  things  spoken  of  by 
the  aged  woman  cast  long,  unreal  shadows  across 


ASAF 215 

her  mind;  she  did  not  fully  understand,  but  there 
was  a  vague  comfort  behind  them.  Often  now  it 
seemed  to  her  that  the  only  thing  that  had  reality  at 
all  was  the  flame  of  her  love. 

The  open  front  of  the  shrine  was  darkened  as  a 
man  entered  quickly.  The  girl  rose  instantly  and 
he  held  her  a  moment,  kissing  her.  They  were 
alone  together  in  the  narrow,  low-roofed  twilight 
before  the  defaced  image. 

"Lord  of  my  love,  have  they  received  a  signal  ?" 

"Yes,  Heart's  Delight,  and  they  will  give  no  aid." 

"And  now " 

"We  stand  as  we  stood  at  the  first.  Fear  noth- 
ing. They  do  not  even  dream  of  war  in  Delhi." 

A  sound  from  without  reached  them.  Releasing 
her,  Adhiraj  went  out  from  the  shrine.  The  girl 
slipped  down  again  upon  the  rug,  watching  to  see 
what  might  appear.  But  the  almost  obliterated, 
thead-like  path  that  led  to  the  tiny  temple  turned 
sharply  away  from  it,  and  six  feet  from  the  thresh- 
old stone  any  creature — man,  horse  or  tiger — might 
pass  unseen  behind  the  all-concealing  density  of  the 
jungle.  Dil-Khusha  heard  the  voices  of  two  men 
— nothing  more. 

A  dozen  yards  from  the  shrine  the  trail,  dim  as 
the  path  of  a  single  stag,  ran  across  a  glade  of  knee- 
deep  grass.  Here,  as  in  an  audience  chamber  of 
the  deer  forest,  Adhiraj  waited,  for  a  man  had  come 


216      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

out  from  the  camp  telling  him  of  one  who  demanded 
urgently  to  speak  with  him.  A  careless  butterfly 
flickered  above  his  spiked  helmet  where  the  circlet 
of  carbuncles  showed  a  sullen  red. 

A  horse,  urged  recklessly,  broke  into  the  glade 
at  its  lower  end  and  was  reined  in  abruptly,  blow- 
ing and  quivering.  The  tasselled  trappings  upon  it 
spoke  of  a  royal  stable.  It  had  been  ridden  furi- 
ously. A  young  man,  sumptuously  clad,  flung  him- 
self from  the  saddle,  stumbled,  caught  at  the  horse 
and  came  up  to  Adhiraj. 

For  a  few  moments  the  young  Rajput  leader  took 
the  boy  for  a  stranger.  Then  he  recalled  him.  It 
was  Kama  Deva,  the  Vickram,  who  had  threatened 
Akbar  to  his  face  at  the  time  of  the  coming  of  Safa 
and  had  defied  him  before  the  full  Durbar  at  the 
Bride's  Choice. 

"Peace  be  with  thee,  brother,"  he  began,  aston- 
ished, but  grasping  nothing  of  the  significance  of 
his  appearance.  The  boy  looked  straight  at  Adhi- 
raj with  furious,  bitter  eyes. 

"Peace!  There  is  no  peace  for  me  or  thee  this 
day!" 

"What  dost  thou  mean?" 

"This — this !  Safa,  whom,  as  thou  knowest,  could 
by  a  word  have  sent  thee  such  a  force  as  would 
have  given  Delhi  into  thy  hand  to-night,  hath  with- 
drawn all  succor  from  thee,  leaving  us  death  and 


ASAF 217 

defeat;  for  the  Moghul  hath  discovered  thy  plans 
and  even  now  descends  upon  thee." 

"Akbar  knoweth  this  ambush?" 

"Yes,  he  knows,  and  may  the  bones  of  his  ac- 
cursed spies  be  blasted  with  rottenness!  I  would 
have  yielded  my  life  to  gain  thee  aid,  knowing  that 
with  thy  strong  arm  and  such  a  force  behind  thee 
the  city  would  have  fallen  before  the  night  and  the 
carcass  of  the  Moghul  could  have  been  flung  to  the 
dogs!  But  Safa — guided  by  the  mad  perversity  of 
women — cast  victory  to  the  winds  to  save  my  life. 
What  devil's  mockery  to  give  me  life  when  only 
death  could  fulfill  the  purpose  of  my  life!"  The 
frantic  bitterness  in  this  passionate  outburst  was 
terrible  to  hear.  Then  Kama  Deva  spoke  again  in  a 
hard  voice  curtly : 

"All  hope  is  lost.  Retreat  instantly  if  thou 
wouldst  not  be  meat  to  feed  the  Mohammedan's 
viciousness." 

Adhiraj  looked  at  the  boy.  He  was  clad,  like  a 
Rajah's  son,  in  a  dark  blue  velvet  fringed  and  em- 
bossed with  silver,  and  a  silver  plume  swept  back- 
ward from  his  lightly  twisted  headdress  of  sky- 
blue  silk.  He  was  pathetically  young,  and  as  beau- 
tiful as  a  fair-skinned  Circassian  girl. 

"What  wilt  thou  do,  my  brother?"  asked  Adhiraj. 

"That  which  I  have  to  do  remains  still  to  be 
done.  I  have  sworn  an  oath.  ."  His  hand 


218      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

dropped  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sheathed  dagger.  "It 
is  my  hope  that  thou  mayst  escape  the  Mohamme- 
dan. Fare  thee  well."  He  caught  the  hanging 
bridle,  leapt  upon  the  horse  and  crashed  back  into 
the  jungle. 

Unhesitatingly  Adhiraj  turned,  passing  slowly 
along  the  path  that  led  to  the  shrine.  Dil-Khusha 
sat  as  before,  her  hands  idle,  thinking,  listening, 
waiting.  She  heard  the  step  that  she  listened  for 
through  all  the  waking  hours  of  her  days.  He  was 
coming  back  to  her.  Her  heart  quickened,  as  it  did 
always,  no  matter  how  short  a  time  he  was  away. 

He  entered  the  shrine  in  silence,  and  silently  took 
her  in  his  arms,  holding  her  fiercely  as  he  had  held 
her  on  the  night  of  their  marriage.  An  ominous 
fear  laid  its  cold  fingers  upon  the  girl. 

"What  is  it?"  she  whispered.  "Tell  me,  Heart 
of  my  Heart." 

"Heart's  Delight,  thy  father  hath  discovered 
everything  and  is  already  on  his  way  to  destroy  us. 
.  .  .  When  the  men  of  Vickram  abandoned  us  even 
now  there  was  much  hope,  for  Delhi,  taken  unaware, 
might  fall  before  a  lesser  force  than  mine,  but  now 
there  is  only — death.  For  I  will  not  retreat  from 
him,  to  be  trapped  and  slain  at  his  leisure.  There 
will  be  no  aid  from  the  princes  of  the  ancient  blood 
— they  are  dogs  licking  his  hand.  So  it  is  death, 
Heart's  Delight." 


ASAF 319 

He  laid  his  lips  upon  hers  and  felt  in  that  close 
pressure  the  strong  shudder  that  struck  through  her. 
Then  she  clung  to  him  with  all  her  slight  strength, 
her  face  against  his  breast,  but  when  he  raised  her 
face  the  dark  child-eyes  were  dry.  She  looked  at 
him  wordlessly,  and  the  unutterable  tragedy  of  the 
look  was  almost  beyond  his  endurance. 

"Ah,  Heart's  Delight,  have  courage.  .  .  .  ' 

"I — do  not  fear.  Thou  knowest  that  I  will  fol- 
low thee — Oh  my  Lord,  my  love !"  A  violent  shiver- 
ing swept  over  her.  The  young  man  clasped  her 
still  closer  to  him.  She  was  soft  and  frail  as  a 
child.  But  she  did  not  weep.  After  a  silent,  strain- 
ing moment  he  whispered:  "I  must  go  now — my 
beloved.  I  may  not  come  to  thee  again  before  all 
is  over,  but  thou  wilt  follow  me — my  wife." 

Dil-Khusha  felt  the  desperate  pressure  of  his  lips 
again,  felt  him  withdraw  himself  from  her  embrace, 
unclasping  the  clinging  of  her  arms  with  hands  that 
seemed  to  tremble  and  then — she  was  alone. 

The  darkness  of  the  place  seemed  to  rush  upon 
her  with  a  sound  of  thundering  wings,  the  solid 
earth  melted  into  void  beneath  her  feet,  and  with 
his  name  upon  her  lips  she  fell  prone  upon  the  rug 
before  the  forgotten  forest  god. 


220     THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAP  A 


III 

By  thy  cold  breast,  a  serpent  smile, 

By  thy  unfathom'd  gulfs  of  guile, 

By  the  perfection  of  thine  art, 

Which  passed  for  human  thine  own  heart; 

By  thy  delight  in  others'  pain, 

And  by  thy  brotherhood  of  Cain, 

I  call  upon  thee  and  compel 

Thyself  to  be  thy  proper  Hell ! 

"Manfred"— Byron. 

In  a  square  marble  room  lit  by  high  placed  lat- 
tices of  pierced  alabaster  a  single  carpet  strip  lay  in 
the  center  of  the  floor.  About  this  chaste  empti- 
ness moved  a  tall,  white-draped  woman  swiftly,  rest- 
lessly, silently. 

Safa  was  utterly  exhausted  in  soul,  in  mind  and 
in  body ;  yet  she  was  wrought  up  to  a  quivering  un- 
rest and  a  tension  of  spirit  which  she  could  not  re- 
lax. A  subtle  conviction  possessed  her  that  she  her- 
self, Akbar  and  the  boy,  together  with  many  others, 
were  being  irresistibly  drawn  toward  the  central  vor- 
tex wherein  lay  the  consummation  of  their  fates. 
The  approaching  roar  of  the  abyss  was  already 
sounding  faintly  in  her  ears.  She  was  glad  rather 
than  afraid.  The  struggle  between  the  passionate 
woman  and  the  passionate  mother  was  rending  her 
soul  in  twain — he  hated  her  now,  had  cursed  her, 


ASAF  221 

had  sworn  to  kill  her.  .  .  .  Her  heart  was  like  a 
handful  of  ashes.  There  remained  only  to  succor 
and  defend  him  until  the  end — which  her  prescience 
told  her  was  very  near  to  them  now — and  then  to 
die. 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  without.  Safa 
paused  in  her  silent,  overwrought  passing  to  and 
fro  and  stood  uncertainly.  Akbar  had  had  her  con- 
ducted to  this  place  to  await  the  preparation  of 
the  elephant  that  was  to  bear  them  both  to  the  deer 
forest.  Had  he  sent  for  her  already?  She  drew 
her  veil  across  her  face  and  listened. 

A  man's  deep  voice  spoke  suddenly :  "Did  Vick- 
ram  have  a  son  ?  Mulraz,  search  thy  memory.  Did 
he  have  a  son?" 

The  woman  in  the  empty  room  became  instantly 
rigid,  leaning  forward  with  head  inclined.  Every 
nerve  in  her  body  shuddered  at  that  deep,  virile 
voice;  she  loathed  and  feared  it  even  as  she  loathed 
and  feared  the  man.  A  poignant  sense  of  danger 
stabbed  her.  They  could  not  know  that  she  was 
there.  Breathing  soundlessly  she  crept  to  the  heavy 
brocade  curtain  that  masked  the  doorway  and  laid 
her  ear  almost  against  it. 

"How  should  I  know,"  replied  the  philosopher 
peevishly.  "Maybe  he  had  a  score  and  knew  no 
more  of  it  than  thou  knowest  of  the  father  of  thy 
greyhound's  litter." 


222      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

"Thou  knowest  my  meaning,  fool!" 

Asaf  disliked  the  snarling,  sour  old  oracle.  He 
irritated  him  as  something  upon  which  a  man  might 
set  his  foot — something  at  once  feeble  and  venom- 
ous, squirming  and  stinging  in  the  dust. 

"What  dost  thou  know  of  this  boy,  Kama  Deva, 
and  his  claim?" 

"I?  Nothing.  He  hath  a  goodly  appearance,  a 
turn  for  prophecy  and  such-like  tricks,  and  he  hath 
a  plentiful  lack  of  common  sense.  A  youth  so  un- 
encumbered with  discretion  might  well  have  been 
begotten  by  a  king." 

"Then  thou  hast  no  certain  knowledge  of  the 
family  of  Vickram,  or  of  the  truth  of  this  birth 
claim?" 

"My  friend,  I  have  certain  knowledge  of  nothing 
save  the  duplicity  of  women,  but  in  my  house  I  em- 
ploy an  aged  Hindu  manservant  who  came  thither 
from  the  city  of  Vickram  and  who,  if  he  speaketh 
truth,  was  once  a  bodyservant  of  the  old  Rajah.  He 
hath  more  gossip  than  an  old  woman,  and  that  is 
saying  much.  He  will  number  the  hairs  of  the 
Rajah's  beard  for  thee  if  thou  hast  a  desire  to  ques- 
tion him.  Even  now  he  standeth  without  by  the 
head  of  my  mule,  fanning  the  beast  with  a  fly- 
whisk." 

Mulraz  had  glanced  up  sideways  at  the  big,  dark 
man.  A  malicious  chuckle  came  from  behind  his 


ASAF 


unclean,  ivory-colored  beard.  He  paused  a  moment, 
leaning  on  a  tall,  silver-headed  stick,  and  then 
shuffled  away. 

Asaf,  alone,  considered  the  problem  which  had 
possessed  him  for  the  last  half  hour.  He  was  stand- 
ing with  folded  arms,  half  turned  toward  the  cur- 
tained doorway,  his  shoulder  almost  touching  the 
brocade. 

"What  feeling  the  woman  hath  for  the  boy  I  can't 
divine,"  he  muttered.  .  .  .  "He's  dangerous.  If 
there  be  any  further  sign  of  treachery,  or  even  a 
suspicion  of  it,  I'll  cut  him  down  and  answer  myself 
to  Akbar  if  there  be  aught  said." 

With  a  dry,  crackling  rustle  the  rich,  stiff  cur- 
tain was  put  suddenly  aside  and  a  beautiful,  unveiled 
woman,  brow-bound  with  a  single  great  ruby,  con- 
fronted him. 

It  was  the  woman  he  had  seen  by  the  lotus  tank  in 
Akbar's  paradise — the  woman  who  had  sent  the 
message. 

"Thou  shalt  not  do  this  thing!  I  will  tell  Akbar 
all."  Her  hand  clenched  convulsively  on  the  edge 
of  the  curtain. 

Asaf,  astonished,  met  her  as  he  would  have  met 
a  sudden  enemy  facing  him  in  a  moment  of  un- 
preparedness.  His  answer,  even  and  cold  as  steel, 
came  quickly. 

"By  so  doing  thou  wilt  kill  his  love,  for  when 


224      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

he  learns  that  thou  didst  desert  thy  duty  to  become 
my  concubine  he  will  turn  thee  into  the  naked 
streets." 

As  he  spoke  the  woman  shuddered  as  though  she 
had  been  cut  with  a  whip  and  her  nostrils  dilated. 
But  she  had  herself  well  in  control. 

"How  shouldst  thou  understand?  He  is  gener- 
ous and  will  forgive  when  I  disclose  the  truth  to 
him — how  I  was  but  a  child,  and  then  my  king 
was  slain  by  thee,  and  I  fell  helpless  in  thy  hands 
— utterly  at  thy  mercy!  Thou  canst  not  deny  my 
innocence — thou  who  didst  rob  me  of  it !  I  was  so 
young  .  .  .  life  was  so  sweet  to  me  ...  and  when 
the  Brahmins  came  to  take  me  and  lead  me  to  the 
fire,  I  fled  ...  with  thee." 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  on  the  last  words, 
her  eyes  dropped  from  him,  and  her  soul  winced 
under  the  white-hot  shame  that  was  upon  her. 

"Thou  dost  acknowledge,  then,  that  the  fault  was 
thine,"  said  the  man  in  the  same  cold,  sneering  voice. 

"No!  thou  knowest  that  is  a  lie!  Thou  didst 
plead  with  me — me,  a  child ! — speaking  of  love,  ask- 
ing that  I,  who  had  been  a  queen,  should  be  thy 
wife!" 

A  trace  of  callous  amusement  flickered  on  the 
man's  hard,  sensual  mouth. 

"I  must  have  spoken  in  jest.  What  did  I  want 
with  wives?  This  was  my  wife" — he  laid  a  hand 


ASAF 225 

on  his  curved  sword — "a  woman  would  have  blunted 
the  edge  of  it.  Thou  wert  the  spoil  of  war." 

The  deliberate  cold  brutality  of  the  last  sentence 
was  like  an  inhuman  blow.  For  the  moment  Safa 
seemed  as  if  dazed  by  it.  Her  hand  dropped  away 
from  the  curtain. 

"The  spoil  of  war.  .  .  .  '  She  was  as  a  creature 
so  desperately  hurt  that  it  feels  only  a  numbness. 

"The  spoil  of  war!"  Her  voice  rose,  her  eyes 
dilated.  "And  so,  when  thou  hadst  done  with  me 
thou  didst  cast  me  off  like  a  garment  which  dis- 
pleased thee!" 

"If  thou  wilt  have  it  so  I  cannot  deny  it,"  said 
the  man  indifferently. 

"Then  I  will  use  thee  as  thou  hast  used  me — to 
my  own  ends !  Thou  shalt  protect  this  boy." 

She  was  roused  now  completely.  Passionate  hate ; 
a  dominant  and  unrelenting  purpose  possessed  her. 
She  spoke  with  an  absolute  conviction.  Asaf,  un- 
moved, insolent,  watched  her  with  a  kind  of  grim 
amusement. 

"So  thou  dost  command  ?" 

"Yes,  I  command." 

"I  understand,"  said  the  man  slowly.  "Akbar, 
mad  with  passion,  will  yield  thee  anything  thou 
mayst  ask,  and  thou  wilt  use  his  lust  to  crush  me 
if  I  raise  a  hand  against  thy — lover."  Every  word 
and  the  manner  of  his  saying  it  was  a  separate  and 


226      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

intentional  insult.  Safa  clenched  her  hand  until 
the  nails  almost  broke  the  skin,  but  she  commanded 
herself.  She  spoke  in  a  low,  tense  voice: 

"Thou  art  utterly  wrong  in  all.  .  .  .  The  boy 
shall  be  protected,  and  by  thee."  , 

"By  me?  Think  you  I  will  protect  a  traitor — 
that  stubborn,  snarling  cub?  Thou  hast  lost  thy 
wit." 

"It  shall  be  so,  and  by  thine  own  will." 

Her  conviction  was  unshakable,  and  some  omin- 
ous veiled  power  that  was  almost  a  threat  appeared 
to  lie  behind  it.  Asaf  looked  at  her  now  with  a 
glint  of  cruel  curiosity.  When  he  had  spoken  of 
Kama  Deva  as  her  lover  he  knew  that  it  was  a 
lie. 

"What  interest  hast  thou  in  Vickram's  son,  see- 
ing that  thou  art  not  his  mother?"  he  said  slowly, 

after  a  short  silence. 

> 

Safa's  lips  trembled.  An  indescribable  look  came 
upon  her  face. 

"I  love  him  even  as  a  mother,"  she  said  very  low, 
her  eyes  averted. 

The  man  was  puzzled.  He  had  seen  such  a  look 
in  the  eyes  of  one  of  his  own  women  as  she  knelt 
above  a  child  of  three  months  old. 

"Thou  wert  an  unblossomed  bud  of  eleven  years 
when  I  snatched  thee  from  the  pyre,  and  Vickram's 
wife  only  in  name,"  he  said  curtly. 


'ASAF 227 

"Yes." 

"Then  as  he  is  Vickram's  son  he  does  not  come 
of  thy  flesh.  Thou  canst  not  deny  that." 

Safa  lifted  her  eyes  to  his.  There  was  a  subtle 
defiance,  a  sudden  recklessness  in  them.  She  seemed 
to  brace  herself  for  an  irrevocable  event. 

"He  is  not  Vickram's  son.     I  swear  to  that." 

"Then  thou  liest.  I  saw  the  print  of  the  tiger's 
paw  upon  his  breast — thou  knowest  that  is  the  Vick- 
ram's seal." 

Unconsciously  the  woman's  hand  clutched  again 
at  the  curtain  as  if  for  some  support.  She  was  look- 
ing directly  at  him  with  an  extraordinary  intensity. 
She  answered  him  deliberately. 

"I  placed  it  there.  He  has  no  right  to  it.  The 
shame  is  mine,  but  I  was  weak,  and  it  was  my  hope 
that  in  that  manner  I  might  deceive  him  concerning 
his  origin,  for  the  father  of  this  boy  left  me — a 
child — the  child  that  came  to  me  as  lightly  as  a 
wandering  wind." 

Her  eyes  held  his,  pitiless,  fraught  with  infinite 
accusation ;  her  voice  rose  bitterly,  meaningly. 

"He  was  the  spoil  of  war,  even  as  I  was.  Dost 
thou  understand  me?  The  spoil  of  war!" 

For  three  or  four  moments  she  stood  so,  seeing 
the  blank,  stunned  bewilderment  and  shock  of  the 
man  who  had  betrayed  her.  Once  he  tried  to  speak, 
but  could  not.  Then  the  brocade  curtain  rustled 


THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

stiffly  as  it  was  again  put  softly  aside  and  he  was 
alone. 

Asaf  covered  his  eyes  with  his  hand. 


IV 

The  rattle  of  dry  leaves  was  heard  in  the  dense 
tops  of  forty- foot  bamboos ;  the  minute,  secret  bustle 
of  insect  life  about  the  crown  of  a  rigidly  erect 
palm  was  barely  audible.  Upon  the  air  came  the 
crash  of  brittle  cane-brakes,  broken  through  and 
trodden  down  by  struggling  men  and  horses;  the 
screaming  of  maddened  and  wounded  stallions;  the 
squeal  of  arrow-galled  elephants ;  the  braying  bellow 
of  war  conches;  the  yell  of  the  slaughter  and  the 
shriek  of  the  slaughtered — a  scattered  battle  in  an 
open  forest. 

On  the  edge  of  a  space  of  cleared  ground  stood  a 
slender  boy,  habited  in  blue  velvet.  A  silver-crested 
turban  was  on  his  head.  His  back  was  set  against 
an  enormous  trunk,  gray  and  silent  as  stone.  Be- 
fore him  lay  a  dead  horse  with  tasselled  trappings. 
He  clutched  a  broad  dagger,  rigid,  watchful  and 
collected. 

From  somewhere  near  came  the  long-drawn  shud- 
dering groaning  of  a  man,  regular  as  the  beat  of  a 
clock.  A  riderless  horse  broke  out  across  the  open, 


ASAF 229 

stumbled,  pitched  headlong,  and  lay  kicking  help- 
lessly. And  now,  with  a  babel  of  sounds,  a  con- 
fused retreating  mob  of  men  were  forced  out  from 
the  jungle  on  the  farther  side.  They  went  back- 
ward stubbornly,  falling  continually  under  the  sa- 
bers of  the  men  who  drove  them.  A  scattered  scurry 
of  mounted  fighters  broke  through  them  and  over 
them,  trampling  the  wounded  and  dying.  The 
force  gave  back  suddenly,  split  into  struggling 
groups.  A  bay  stallion,  fierce  as  a  panther,  his 
ebony-black  mane  and  tail  streaming,  flashed  at  a 
gallop  across  the  empty  ground  behind  the  struggle. 
The  young  man  who  sat  him  wore  a  spiked  helmet 
rimmed  with  carbuncles.  "Rajputs!  Rajputs! 
Rally!"  It  was  a  hoarse,  desperate  cry.  With  the 
skill  of  a  born  leader  he  checked  them,  steadied 
them,  gathered  them,  shaping  them  into  a  solid 
wedge  of  men.  It  seemed  for  an  instant  as  though 
the  tide  of  conflict  were  about  to  turn,  then  with  a 
terrible  and  indescribable  roar  an  immense,  gnarled, 
gray  bulk,  crazy  with  pain,  burst  out  of  the  forest 
right  upon  them.  The  armored  turret  upon  its 
back  was  empty,  save  for  a  dead  man  hanging  limply 
over  the  front  of  it.  Its  great  ears  stood  out  like 
fans,  its  trunk  was  lifted  and  the  blood  poured 
from  a  hole  in  its  flank  where  a  goring  tusk  had 
been  driven.  The  monstrous  thing  raged  across  the 
open  like  a  mad  devil,  plunging  with  a  mighty 


230      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

blood-spattered  crashing  into  the  opposite  jungle. 
The  rallied  men  had  scattered  like  a  cloud  of  dust 
before  the  charge  of  the  crazed  elephant,  and  as 
Adhiraj  wrenched  his  horse  aside  the  frantic  stal- 
lion reared,  striking  at  the  air.  A  troop  of  Mo- 
hammedan horsemen  swooped  in  the  elephant's 
wake,  trampling  and  spearing,  sweeping  the  space 
as  clean  as  a  broom  sweeps  a  floor,  and  even  as  the 
young  Rajput  leader  got  command  of  his  bay  Arab 
he  was  alone.  For  a  second  or  two  the  curbed  horse 
danced  from  foot  to  foot,  quivering  like  a  hound, 
while  the  young  man  looked  sharply  to  the  right  and 
to  the  left.  Everywhere  men  sprawled  among  the 
coarse  grass  clumps;  here  and  there  an  arm  was 
raised  and  dropped  again. 

Before  him  were  gathered  the  Mohammedans, 
three  or  four  hundred  of  them.  The  late  afternoon 
sun,  ambushed  behind  the  towering  bamboos,  laid 
long  shadows  across  the  open.  The  hesitancy  of  the 
solitary  horse  and  rider  was  only  a  matter  of  a  few 
moments.  With  an  abrupt  gesture  the  young  man 
flung  up  his  naked  saber,  straightening  in  the  sad- 
dle ;  the  stallion  sprang  into  a  gallop  with  the  arrowy 
forward  leap  of  a  stag,  heading  like  a  low-flung 
javelin  straight  for  the  center  of  the  three  hundred 
massed  horsemen.  His  ears  were  flattened,  his 
short,  keen  muzzle  was  thrust  forward,  his  full  eye 
was  bloodshot.  Almost  before  the  mounted  Mo- 


ASAF 231 

hammedans  had  time  to  re-settle  their  lances  Adhi- 
raj  was  among  them.  There  ensued  a  tossing  tur- 
moil of  roaring  horses,  thrusting  spear  heads,  and 
the  unerring  rise  and  fall  of  a  single  curved  blade. 
It  seemed  quite  a  long  while  before  the  riderless 
bay  stallion  broke  out  of  the  circling  confusion  and 
cantered  aimlessly  away,  with  loose-swinging  bridle. 
At  the  farther  end  of  the  clearing  it  stopped,  look- 
ing back  with  a  vast  questioning  wistfulness. 

The  boy  who  was  standing  by  the  flank  of  the 
giant  treetrunk  had  not  moved. 

Now  faint,  fierce  cries  with  a  note  of  victory  in 
them  rose  on  the  farther  limits  of  the  scattered 
forest.  They  were  answered  by  others  far  and  near. 
The  sun  had  suddenly  withdrawn,  leaving  a  wide, 
yellow-tinted  west,  and  the  white  garments  of  the 
dead,  lying  in  the  clearing,  looked  bleak  and  stark, 
though  the  sunset  was  warm  and  glowing.  The 
Mohammedans,  dismounting,  began  to  pillage  the 
corpses.  A  big,  black-bearded  man,  who  was 
mounted  on  a  tall,  chestnut  charger,  rode  out  into 
the  clearing.  He  wore  a  six-pointed  emerald  star 
spangling  his  turban. 

"Stop  that  looting!"  he  shouted,  in  a  deep,  au- 
thoritative voice.  "Mount  and  scour  the  forest. 
Let  none  of  the  dogs  slink  off.  There  will  be  a 
pyramid  of  traitors'  heads  on  the  city  wall  to-night !" 

When  he  was  alone,  save  for  the  dead,  Asaf  dis- 


232      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

mounted,  leading  his  horse  through  the  tall  tufts  of 
grass.  He  was  seeking  for  the  body  of  Adhiraj, 
who  lay  nearer  to  him  than  he  guessed,  for  the 
mounted  soldiers  had  not  known  who  it  was  that 
had  galloped  into  the  midst  of  them.  As  he  skirted 
the  edge  of  the  clearing  he  noticed  a  dead  mare 
lying  at  the  foot  of  a  great-girthed  treetrunk.  His 
own  horse  snorted,  stopping  short,  and  instantly 
some  one  sprang  out  of  the  jungle  shadow  and 
stood  before  him. 

It  was  a  boy  in  a  rich  Durbar  dress — a  boy  with 
an  unsheathed  dagger.  The  big,  bearded  man  took 
a  step  backward. 

"Thou!" 

"I — son  of  Vickram,  who  was  murdered  by  thy 
hand!  Draw  thy  sword — draw  before  I  stab 
thee!" 

He  half-crouched  like  a  maddened  animal,  quiver- 
ing upon  the  very  verge  of  attack. 

A  curious  troubled  look  came  upon  the  handsome, 
callous  face  of  the  man. 

"No — I  cannot  fight  with  thee.  Let  me  pass." 
He  spoke  abruptly — strangely. 

"Then  I  proclaim  thee  a  coward!"  The  boy's 
voice  rose  in  furious  contempt.  He  took  a  quick 
step  forward  and  struck  Asaf  in  the  face  with  his 
clenched  left  hand. 

"Now  wilt  thou  fight  with  me?"     The  heavy 


ASAF 233 

saber,  which  had  been  whipped  from  its  steel  sheath 
with  the  instant  deadliness  gained  in  many  wars, 
was  driven  deliberately  back  into  the  scabbard.  He 
had  taken  the  blow  like  a  statue  of  rooted  rock.  He 
bore  now  the  set  look  of  a  mask. 

"Thou  shalt  not  tempt  me,"  he  said  in  a  muffled 
voice. 

"Thou  self-confessed  coward!  Thou  shalt  die 
like  a  dog!"  The  boy's  right  arm  went  up.  Asaf 
spoke  sharply,  rapidly. 

"Hold  thy  hand.  Thou  dost  not  know  what  thou 
wouldst  do.  I  am  thy " 

"Thou  art  my  father's  murderer!"  Again  the 
dagger  flashed  up. 

A  spasm  of  some  obscure  feeling  convulsed  the 
man's  face.  Again  he  threw  out  a  tense,  arresting 
hand. 

"Boy,  know  then  that  I  am  thy " 

The  broad-bladed  knife  flashed  downward,  tak- 
ing him  in  the  throat,  and  he  fell  straight  back  as  a 
tree  falls,  a  gush  of  bloody  foam  choking  the  word 
that  was  almost  in  his  mouth.  He  lay  as  he  fell, 
his  limbs  and  fingers  twitching  slightly;  the  strong 
life  going  out  of  him  swiftly  and  silently.  The 
chestnut  horse,  which  had  edged  away  from  them, 
was  grazing  casually  and  went  further  into  the  shel- 
ter of  the  jungle. 

Kama  Deva  stood  over  the  man  he  had  killed. 


234      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

His  soul  exulted.  The  glow  of  a  great  achievement 
uplifted  him.  The  thought  of  flight,  of  concealment 
had  not  even  entered  the  threshold  of  his  mind.  He 
folded  his  arms,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  was  now 
indeed  worthy  of  the  race  of  his  father  was  like 
musk  in  his  nostrils.  No  living  thing  moved  in 
the  open  space,  and  the  golden  color  in  the  west 
faded  into  a  ghastly  paleness. 

A  great  white  elephant,  moving  with  the  meas- 
ured, undulating  motion  that  appeared  as  deliberate 
as  the  passage  of  a  heavy  milch  cow,  devoured  the 
distance  astonishingly.  It  bore  housings  of  crimson 
velvet,  and  the  deep  gold  fringes  almost  swept  the 
grass  tufts.  Solid  golden  anklets,  bearing  three 
rows  of  bells,  were  riveted  upon  its  forelegs;  its 
shortened  tusks  were  bound  with  gold,  and  the  ex- 
quisite ivory  howdah,  with  its  pagoda-shaped  roof 
and  rod-like  columns,  was  curtained  with  shimmer- 
ing silk.  A  white-clad  mahout  squatted  forward  on 
the  great  neck. 

A  man  and  a  woman  sat  side  by  side  beneath  the 
frail  ivory  dome.  Safa,  leaning  back  among  the 
cushions,  watched  the  swaying  of  the  yellow  silk 
curtains  that  bellied  in  the  sunset  wind.  The  close 
odor  of  attar  of  roses  permeated  the  interior  of  the 
howdah.  Every  little  while  she  glanced  sideways 
at  the  man  beside  her.  His  personality  dominated 


ASAF 


her  as  always,  inflaming  her  toward  him  even  while 
she  feared  him  as  she  had  feared  no  other  living  be- 
ing. Akbar  himself  sat  rather  rigidly,  looking  di- 
rectly ahead,  save  when  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  her 
for  a  brief  moment,  and  though  Safa  would  not 
meet  them  she  knew  the  smouldering  heat  and  un- 
shakable purpose  of  the  look.  She  was  rent  in- 
wardly between  yielding  and  denial.  They  had  not 
spoken  for  a  long  time. 

An  occasional  faint  cry  or  shout  was  the  only 
other  sound  now.  They  had  come  from  among 
trees  into  an  open  place,  and  Safa,  putting  aside  one 
of  the  little  curtains,  saw  dead  men  lying  singly  and 
in  threes  and  fours.  A  vulture  flapped  heavily  away, 
disturbed  by  the  elephant.  They  were  passing  up 
one  side  of  the  clearing  within  easy  distance  of  the 
fringing  jungle.  Presently  Safa,  still  looking  down 
from  the  howdah,  saw  someone  standing  at  the  edge 
of  the  forest  beside  the  bodies  of  a  horse  and  a 
man.  An  inexplicable  terror  seized  her.  In  the 
half  light  it  was  difficult  to  see  clearly  anything  at 
a  distance.  She  leaned  further  out,  gazing,  while 
the  elephant  swayed  forward  like  a  moving  hill. 
.  .  .  The  figure  was  Kama  Deva,  standing,  watch- 
ing them  with  folded  arms,  and  the  dead  man  was 
Asaf — she  could  see  the  black  beard  and  the  emerald 
star  on  his  white  turban. 

With  a  shuddering  effort  Safa  held  back  the  cry 


236      THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

that  would  have  broken  from  her.  She  felt  at  once 
horror,  relief,  and  a  sickening  fear  for  the  boy. 
She  still  gazed  down,  utterly  unable  to  decide  what 
she  should  do.  The  man  beside  her  stirred  abruptly 
and  at  the  same  moment  ordered  the  mahout  to 
halt.  Safa's  fear  caught  her  by  the  throat;  she 
could  not  speak.  Akbar,  bending  forward,  called 
to  the  captain  of  the  mounted  escort  that  rode  with 
them  and  the  Amir  drew  his  horse  alongside  the 
elephant. 

"Which  way  did  Asaf  go — knowest  thou  ?" 

A  wave  of  infinite  relief  swept  over  the  listening 
woman ;  her  wit  caught  at  the  chance  that  his  ques- 
tion suggested.  She  laid  a  quick  hand  on  the  arm 
of  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death. 

"I  see  him !  There — there "  She  was  point- 
ing toward  the  far  end  of  the  clearing.  "He  rode  a 
chestnut  horse,  did  he  not?  He  is  passing  deeper 
into  the  jungle."  Her  hand  tightened  unconsciously 
on  Akbar's  arm. 

"I — I  wish  to  dismount  here,  my  lord.  This  is 
the  place  of  the  battle,  is  it  not?" 

He  answered  her,  crushing  her  hand  a  moment 
in  one  of  his.  At  his  order  the  elephant,  at  a  sharp 
command  from  the  mahout,  sank  ponderously  upon 
its  knees.  A  portable  flight  of  steps  was  brought 
and  Akbar,  descending  first,  stood  at  the  foot  of  it 
to  assist  Safa  to  the  ground.  As  he  touched  her 


ASAF 237 

arm,  steadying  her,  she  pointed  again,  crying  in  a 
clear,  unshaken  voice: 

"There  is  Asaf!  There!  Canst  thou  not  see?" 
Akbar  turned  to  the  mounted  Amir. 

"Send  some  of  thy  men  yonder  and  bid  them 
summon  Asaf  to  me." 

When  three  troopers  had  sprung  away  at  a  gal- 
lop the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death,  lowering  his  voice, 
spoke  with  the  dismounted  Amir,  while  the  risen 
elephant,  towering  above  them,  twinkled  an  astute, 
small,  gem-like  eye  that  was  almost  hidden  by  the 
gold  fringe  of  its  velvet  head-covering. 

This  was  the  slight,  the  fragile  chance  for  which 
Safa  had  lied  desperately.  She  had  besought  Akbar 
to  send  soldiers  to  seek  a  dead  man  who  lay  in  the 
long  grass  not  twenty  yards  away.  She  must  go 
to  the  boy — now;  she  must  overcome  the  defiant 
madness  that  tempted  death  and  send  him  into  the 
safety  of  the  forest — before  those  troopers  galloped 
back. 

It  was  twilight  still  in  the  open,  but  in  the  shadow 
of  the  jungle  it  was  already  night.  Safa,  coming 
swiftly  and  softly  to  the  edge  of  the  deep  shadow, 
saw  the  body  of  a  tall  man  lying  at  full  length 
and  a  stark  bearded  face  with  open  eyes.  On  the 
other  side  of  the  body  stood  her  son,  unmoving, 
with  folded  arms.  She  had  stopped  abruptly,  for 
the  murdered  man  lay  between  them. 


238      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

"What  hast  thou  done?"  She  spoke  almost  in  a 
whisper.  A  sick  horror  possessed  her. 

Kama  Deva  looked  at  her.  The  square  set  of 
his  jaw  was  hard  as  flint.  His  whole  attitude  sug- 
gested a  defiant,  savage  joy. 

"I  have  fulfilled  a  vow!" 

He  spoke  recklessly  in  a  high  voice — so  high  that 
Safa  caught  her  breath  in  terror.  She  was  los- 
ing control  of  herself.  The  dead  man  unnerved 
her. 

"Dost  thou  know  whom  thou  hast  killed?"  she 
asked  unsteadily,  her  voice  rising  unconsciously. 

"My  father's  murderer !"  The  words  came  short 
and  savage  like  the  snap  of  a  wolf. 

Something  seemed  to  break — to  give  way — in  the 
woman's  overwrought  consciousness.  She  gave  a 
little  choked,  hysterical  laugh. 

"Thy  father's  murderer!  Thou  hast  killed  him 

who  was  thy  father "  A  cold  hand  clutched 

her  heart ;  in  that  moment  she  seemed  to  hang  upon 
the  utter  brink  of  an  unthinkable  abyss.  "Thy 
father's  murderer."  The  last  words  came  in  a 
gasp.  She  half  expected  the  dead  man  at  her  feet 
to  stir  and  speak. 

"He  was  my  enemy.  It  was  my  right."  The 
boy,  absorbed  with  the  glutting  of  his  hate,  had  not 
heard  the  strange  pregnant  break  in  her  strained 
voice.  Neither  of  them  noted  the  sudden,  crude 


ASAF 239 

flare  of  a  dozen  torches,  blazing  in  a  high-held  clus- 
ter on  the  nearer  side  of  the  stationary  elephant. 
The  reddish,  throbbing  torch  light  seemed  to  snatch 
down  a  premature  night  upon  the  vague  twilight 
space,  and  the  dark  jungle  walls  became  instantly 
as  impenetrable  as  solid  ebony.  Safa's  white  figure 
showed  plainly  against  this  blackness. 

Kama  Deva's  straight  black  brows  contracted 
suddenly.  That  other  wild  vow,  made  while  the 
knife  hung  quivering  above  his  neck,  flashed  across 
his  mind.  He  was  pledged  to  kill  this  woman  also 
— this  woman  who  had  betrayed  the  cause  of  the 
Rajputs  to  save  his  life.  If  he  held  his  hand  now 
she  might  go  unpunished,  for  she  had  become  one 
of  the  Mohammedan's  women  and  would  be 
guarded.  He  did  not  wish  to  kill  her;  the  knife 
became  heavy  in  his  hand  at  the  thought  of  it,  but 
she  deserved  death.  The  pause  between  his  last 
words  and  this  decision  was  very  short.  Safa  was 
looking  down  at  the  dead  man,  whose  eyes  were 
half  open.  The  nearness  of  Akbar  and  the  special 
urgency  of  every  moment  had  melted  from  the  con- 
sciousness of  her  shaken  soul.  Kama  Deva,  looking 
only  at  her,  did  not  see  the  broad-shouldered,  square- 
bearded  man  who  was  coming  toward  them  alone 
from  the  group  about  the  elephant.  The  boy's  hand 
tightened  nervously  upon  the  dagger  hilt ;  a  strained, 
painful  look  came  upon  his  face.  The  thing  was 


240      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

hateful  to  him,  but  he  had  sworn  to  do  it — and  she 
was  guilty. 

He  struck  without  the  slightest  sound,  and  very 
swiftly,  but  some  deep  instinct  raised  Safa's  eyes  in 
time.  With  a  sharp,  involuntary  cry  of  fear  she 
caught  his  wrist  with  a  quickness  as  instant  as  his 
own.  She  knew  she  could  only  hold  him  so  a  mo- 
ment, for  there  was  death  in  his  eyes,  but  in  that 
desperate  moment  a  man's  clenched  fist  sent  the  boy 
staggering  backward  and  she  was  gripped  by  the 
arm  and  drawn  aside.  Then — almost  on  the  instant 
as  it  seemed  to  her — there  was  a  half-circle  of  sol- 
diers with  naked  swords  about  them  and  the  leap- 
ing, smoky  glare  of  the  torches  dazzled  her  eyes. 
Kama  Deva  stood  a  dozen  feet  away,  showing  no 
emotion  and  blinking  slightly  at  the  light,  the 
stained  knife  still  in  his  clutch.  There  was  no  need 
for  any  there  to  look  a  second  time  at  the  man  with 
the  bloody  throat  and  mouth.  Akbar,  now  at  the 
center  of  the  circle,  close  to  the  body,  flung  up'  a 
hand  that  shook  with  the  fury  that  was  in  him. 

"Thou  hast  killed  Asaf!  Infamous,  vile,  cursed 
murderer !  Seize  him !" 

Instantly  the  boy  was  in  the  savage  grip  of  half 
a  dozen  soldiers.  He  never  moved  a  muscle.  A 
slight  foam  showed  on  the  crisp  beard  of  the  Lord 
of  Life  and  Death;  the  veins  upon  his  forehead  stood 
out  like  cords. 


ASAF 24.1 

"Wait — wait,"  he  said  in  a  hoarse  voice.  "I  can- 
not think  of  torture  great  enough  to  punish  this 
skulking  whelp!"  He  turned  to  the  Amir.  "Give 
him  as  a  den  companion  to  Nadir  Shah,  the  man- 
eater!  No,  let  him  die  of  thirst  in  *an  iron  cage 
above  the  river!  No,  no,  fetter  him  and  throw 
him  before  a  bull  elephant!" 

He  wheeled  on  Safa,  speaking  thickly  under  the 
stress  of  his  fury. 

"Canst  thou  suggest  a  fitter  torture?  He  would 
have  murdered  thee,  who  hath  twice  saved  his  life 
— the  misbegotten  son  of  an  assassin!" 

The  woman  looked  at  him  in  a  hopeless,  strang- 
ling agony,  the  pain  of  which  was  almost  beyond  the 
uttermost  limit  of  her  endurance. 

"My  lord,  spare  him.  .  .  .  I — I  beseech  thee  to 
spare  him.  ..."  she  said  in  a  choked  voice. 

The  furious  man  stared  at  her  a  moment  uncom- 
prehendingly ;  then  he  spoke  violently. 

"He  would  have  killed  thee,  and  thou  dost  ask 
me  to  spare  him?  It  is  the  weakness  of  a  woman. 
Thou  art  overwrought." 

He  wheeled  again  to  the  Amir. 

"Torture  him — now!  Bind  his  hands  over  the 
flame  of  a  fire-basket  till  the  fat  melts.  Let  me  hear 
his  screams — they  will  soothe  my  soul." 

Immediately  those  who  heard  leaped  to  instant 
obedience.  A  coil  of  green  hide-thongs  was  tossed 


THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

into  the  circle  and  a  soldier  came  running  with  a 
flaring  fire-basket.  Kama  Deva's  face  was  set  like 
a  stone. 

Safa's  world  was  reeling  now  and  the  earth  shud- 
dered beneath  her.  She  felt  as  though  her  heart  was 
to  be  shattered  into  a  thousand  fragments  under  the 
hammer  of  a  blind  giant.  She  saw  only  the  set,  de- 
fiant face  of  the  boy — the  beautiful  boy  she  had 
borne — as  through  a  blinding  mist,  and  the  torches 
had  become  blurred,  lurid  stars.  He  must  not  suf- 
fer— he  must  not  die,  her  child — her  son! 

She  came  into  the  midst  of  the  circle,  her  lips  dry, 
the  beating  of  her  heart  dizzying  her.  Twice  she 
tried  to  speak,  gasping  before  the  words  came  to  her. 

"A  moment — give  me  a  moment!  I  must  have 
breath  to  speak — breath — I'm  choking " 

Her  hands  went  out  toward  the  boy  uncertainly. 
A  thick,  red  haze  encompassed  her,  in  which  were 
dull,  yellow  sparks,  very  far  away.  At  a  great  dis- 
tance a  man's  voice  said  harshly: 

"She  is  distracted  by  the  sight  of  him.  Take  him 
hence." 

The  haze  was  thicker  than  ever,  but  the  woman 
understood.  Her  last  appeal  broke  from  her  in  a 
strange,  agonizing,  breathless  cry. 

"Not  till  you  have  heard  me  speak!  If  he  dies 
it  will  kill  me,  too!  Spare  my  son — my  son!" 

And  instantly  the  red  haze  was  smitten  into  a 


ASAF 243 

vast,  black  void  as  Safa  swayed  and  fell,  lying  with 
face  upturned  between  the  man  and  the  boy,  who 
stared  at  each  other  across  the  body  of  the  fallen 
woman. 

There  was  a  dumb  pause.  Kama  Deva  was  mute 
under  the  shock  of  the  revelation.  His  eyes  dropped 
from  Akbar's  to  the  face  of  the  fainting  woman 
who  lay  between  them.  He  seemed  stunned  beyond 
the  power  of  words  or  even  thought. 

The  Lord  of  Life  and  Death  made  a  slight  sign 
and  the  soldiers  who  held  the  boy  drew  away  from 
him.  He  looked  up,  realized  this,  and,  turning 
abruptly,  went  from  them  unmolested,  slipping  like 
a  stricken  spirit  into  the  midnight  of  the  jungle. 


PART   VI 

THE   SUTTEE 

I 

SAFA,  without  opening  her  eyes,  became  con- 
scious of  herself  and  also,  in  a  vague,  blurred 
manner,  of  the  thing  that  had  happened,  as 
some  one  waking  from  a  sleep  realizes  the  throb 
and  ache  of  a  grievous  hurt  without  any  exact  mem- 
ory of  the  circumstances  under  which  it  was  given. 
A  terrible,  inarticulate  sense  of  desolation  descended 
upon  her.    It  was  as  though  she  were  utterly  alone 
in  a  dead,  midnight  world,  abandoned  like  a  leper 
in  a  place  of  tombs  at  the  edge  of  a  desert. 

The  wave  of  bleak,  keen  misery  that  swept  over 
her  quickened  her  half-awakened  consciousness  to  a 
sudden  sharpened  realization  of  outer  things.  .  .  . 
She  was  in  the  arms  of  a  man  who  knelt  on  one 
knee  supporting  her,  and  her  head  lay  against  his 
breast.  Even  as  she  regained  consciousness  his  lips 
came  upon  hers.  Her  soft  mouth  responded  invol- 
untarily to  the  passionate  pressure,  yielding  wholly 
to  him  in  a  long,  hot,  close,  hungry  kiss. 

245 


246      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

In  that  supreme  all-yielding  moment  a  shivering 
ecstasy  swept  over  the  woman,  lifting  her  into  a 
flood  of  pure,  passionate  joy  that  was  beyond  all 
thought.  She  knew  that  she  loved  this  man  with 
every  fiber  of  her  being,  and  the  secret  thirst  that 
had  been  unsated  within  her  all  her  life  drank  in 
the  long,  clinging  kiss  and  could  not  seem  to  drink 
enough.  In  those  moments,  as  she  lay  in  his  arms, 
his  lips  pressed  hard  upon  hers,  the  world  appeared 
filled  with  the  greatness  of  full-blown  roses.  Aban- 
doned utterly  to  her  love  and  his,  she  tasted  the 
most  perfect,  poignant  and  wonderful  joy  that  is 
permitted  to  a  woman,  and  was  content. 

Across  this  exquisite  stir  and  tumult  of  her  senses 
shot  a  keen,  arrowy  pang,  bitter  as  death,  while, 
faint  and  ravished,  she  lay  upon  his  breast.  She 
had  forgotten  her  son — the  son  who  had  tried  to 
kill  her,  and  whom  they  would  have  tortured.  She 
had  forgotten  all  things  in  a  love  which,  if  she 
should  once  yield  to  its  ultimate  demand,  would  fet- 
ter her  body  and  soul  to  this  strong-willed  man, 
even  weakening,  if  such  a  thing  were  possible,  her 
mother  love,  or  perhaps  supplanting  it  by  a  new  pas- 
sion for  a  child  of  his  that  she  might  bear  to  him. 
.  .  .  Her  whole  soul  trembled  with  ecstasy  at  the 
mere  fleeting  thought  of  it.  Oh  God!  a  child  of 
hers  begotten  by  the  man  she  loved.  .  .  .  Then  the 
knife-like  pang  stabbed  her  again,  and  she  shud- 


THE     SUTTEE  247 

dered  under  it.  How  could  she  betray  this  other 
child — himself  the  fruit  of  a  betrayal — who  had 
such  need  of  her?  A  burning  wave  of  mother- feel- 
ing surged  up  in  her,  scorchingly  reproachful.  Her 
whole  nature  was  riven.  It  was  as  though  fire 
struggled  with  snow — the  love  of  the  woman  with 
the  love  of  the  mother — and  the  pain  of  it  turned 
her  faint  and  sick.  .  .  . 

From  the  moment  when  Safa  aroused  under  Ak- 
bar's  kiss  to  the  moment  when  the  thought  of  her 
son  pierced  her  soul  her  passionate  delight,  agoniz- 
ing her,  was  of  the  briefest,  as  men  measure  time, 
though  the  woman  lived  through  a  hundred  years 
of  pain  in  those  last  few  seconds. 

The  long  kiss  was  ended  at  last  and  the  man 
raised  his  head  slowly,  with  a  deep  indrawn  breath, 
as  of  thirst  satisfied.  Safa  stirred  slightly  against 
his  breast  for  the  first  time  and  then  her  eyes 
opened.  She  knew  he  would  think  that  she  had 
been  unconscious,  or  nearly  so,  until  now.  She 
saw  that  the  night  had  come,  and  that  the  men  and 
the  torches  had  gone,  leaving  them  alone. 

She  stirred  again,  sighing  this  time,  and  the  man 
who  held  her  saw  that  she  knew  him.  He  did  not 
know  that  she  had  yielded  consciously  to  his  lips, 
tasting  an  intoxication  of  the  senses  even  as  he  had 
tasted  it. 

"I  have   released  thy  son,   Safa — for  thy  sake 


348     THE    SUTTEE    OF    SAFA 

only,  Desire  of  my  soul  and  body !  But  for  thy  sake 
I  would  give  the  world  to  chaos  if  the  power  were 
in  me  to  make  thee  love  me.  Never  was  a  woman 
loved  as  I  love  and  desire  thee!  My  blood  thirsts 
for  thee;  my  flesh  hungers  for  thee.  Never  have  I 
known  such  a  hunger  or  such  a  thirst.  My  soul  is 
set  in  a  waterless  desert.  Thou  art  wine,  fruit  and 
the  bloom  of  flowers.  .  .  .  Safa,  wilt  thou  not  say 
thou  lovest  me?" 

The  woman  in  his  arms  quivered  a  response  to 
every  passionate  word.  The  desire  to  cry  suddenly 
"I  love  thee!"  and  to  yield  her  lips  to  him  again 
burnt  within  her  like  a  subtle  fire.  But  the  thought 
of  the  boy  was  with  her,  torturing  her.  She  an- 
swered him  presently  in  a  low  voice  that  shook 
tremulously : 

"Akbar,  have — have  pity  upon  me.  I  suffer  be- 
cause of  my  son." 

The  man's  arms  about  her  tightened,  straining  her 
to  him.  He  broke  out  savagely : 

"Oh  God!  What  power  can  crush  this  mother's 
love  in  thee?  I  will  move  the  very  heavens — I  will 
exile  the  sun  to  night,  banish  the  moon  to  day,  and 
break  every  natural  law  to  rid  thy  soul  of  this 
cursed  thing!" 

Before  she  answered  him  Safa,  with  his  aid,  arose 
slowly  to  her  feet.  She  was  pale  as  ivory  and  trem- 


THE     SUTTEE.  249 

bled  a  little,  leaning  against  his  shoulder,  while  he 
held  her  hands,  embracing  her. 

Away  to  the  left  were  gathered  a  ruddy  cluster 
of  steadily-burning  torches,  blurred  by  a  night  mist 
that  lay  upon  the  open  like  a  face-cloth  upon  the 
countenance  of  the  dead.  Overhead  shone  myriads  of 
minute,  silver  stars.  When  Safa  spoke  it  was  with  a 
sadness  infinite  as  the  night  that  encompassed  them. 

"Akbar,  hast  thou  not  been  told — hast  thou  not 
learned  that  no  power  in  earth  or  heaven  can  sway 
the  love  of  a  mother?" 

The  man  drew  her  suddenly  to  him,  holding  her 
with  all  his  strength.  Standing  so  he  was  taller  by 
almost  a  head  than  she,  who  could  scarcely  draw 
breath  in  the  pressure  of  his  arms  as  he  crushed 
her  against  his  breast. 

"I'll  melt  this  feeling  in  thee  as  fire  melts  ice! 
Thou  art  a  mother,  but  thou  art  a  woman  first,  and 
thou  shalt  desire  the  passion  that  drives  me  to  thee 
as  I  desire  thee!  Thou  wert  made  for  the  love  of 
a  man — the  Creator  hath  set  his  seal  upon  thee! 
He  hath  formed  thee  to  satisfy  the  thirst  that  is 
roused  by  thee!  Safa,  I  will  give  thee  all  my  days 
— give  me  thy  nights!" 

A  pregnant  silence  followed.  The  man  had 
spoken  at  last,  demanding  everything,  and  the 
woman,  who  passionately  loved  him — her  head 


thrown  back,  her  eyes  half  closed,  knew  only  that 
the  joy  of  this  asking  melted  her  soul  like  gold  in 
a  furnace,  and  that  when  she  answered  him  she 
could  not,  if  she  would,  deny  him.  .  .  . 

A  human  sound,  the  blended  roar  of  many  voices, 
hoarse  and  angry  as  the  snarl  of  a  wild  beast,  came 
to  them  across  the  level  night  mist  and  new  scat- 
tered torches  appeared,  flitting  like  fireflies.  They 
gathered  in  a  fiery  cluster  about  the  group  by  the 
elephant,  and  after  a  moment  or  two  short,  savage 
shouts  broke  out  like  the  yelps  of  a  pack  on  a  blood 
trail.  Then  flaring  torches,  breaking  from  the  clus- 
ter, streamed  out  in  lengthening  line,  coming 
through  the  weltering  mist  toward  the  man  and 
woman  who  stood  embraced,  knee  deep  in  the  dew- 
drenched  grass. 

Safa  had  not  yet  answered  the  man  who  held  her. 
She  was  faint  from  weakness,  mental  agony  and 
the  overpowering  shock  of  joy,  but  now,  seeing  the 
torches,  she  freed  herself  from  him,  looking  up  at 
him  half  questioningly  at  first,  and  then  stood  apart 
alone.  The  blurred,  scattered  lights  were  close  upon 
them  now. 

An  old,  crooked  man,  hunched  up  on  a  white 
mule,  appeared  suddenly  out  of  the  mist.  It  was 
Mulraz,  and  at  the  tail  of  the  mule  came  a  mixed 
mob  of  men  with  a  dozen  torches,  stringing  out 
almost  into  a  single  file.  Their  hard,  savage  breath- 


THE     SUTTEE  251 

ing  and  the  swishing  rustle  of  the  wet  jungle  grass 
seemed  the  only  sounds  in  the  night.  Mulraz'  high- 
pitched  voice  broke  out  almost  in  a  scream  just  as 
the  mule  came  abreast  of  the  watching  man  and 
woman : 

"I  have  shown  ye  that  I  have  proofs,  my  brothers. 
The  word  of  a  bodyservant  of  the  dead  Rajah  hath 
been  given.  He  saith  that  this  Kama  Deva  is  no 
son  of  Vickram!  Ye  have  heard  from  others  that 
this  impostor — this  whelp  of  some  bazaar  walker — 
hath  murdered  Asaf,  the  trusted  servant  of  the  Peer- 
less One!  'Tis  a  young  viper!  A  poison  thorn  in 
the  flesh  of  the  Great  One!  A  crazy  jackal's  cub 
that  hath  bitten  treacherously  and  skulked  into  the 
jungle!  Hunt  him  out,  my  brothers,  and  leave  a 
feast  for  the  crows!" 

He  raised  a  quivering  arm  and  shook  it  as  the 
mule's  slim,  twinkling  legs  carried  him  nimbly  for- 
ward. The  boy  had  always  roused  in  him  a  peculiar 
acid  irritation,  and  he  had  entertained  a  certain  re- 
spect for  Asaf,  who  had  been  in  all  things  a  rigid 
Mohammedan  and  had  never  tasted  wine.  A  hoarse 
shout  arose. 

"Kill  him!  Kill  the  murderer!  Kill  the  impos- 
tor!" 

The  mob,  tasting  the  crude  primal  joy  of  a  sav- 
age blood  lust,  blundered  after  him  through  the 
mist.  The  men's  faces,  seen  fitfully  as  they  streamed 


252      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

past,  had  a  dreadful  eager,  hungry  look,  like  the 
look  of  a  dog  scenting  meat,  and  they  held  bared 
swords,  daggers  and  hunting  knives. 

Safa  had  been  mentally  stunned  for  the  instant. 
The  old  man  on  the  mule,  the  torches,  the  confused 
following  mob  of  hard-breathing  men  break- 
ing abruptly  out  upon  them  from  the  soft  night 
fog,  left  her  utterly  bewildered.  Then,  all  in 
a  moment,  she  woke  to  the  full  meaning  of  it  all. 
A  flash  of  blinding  fear  passed  before  her  soul. 
She  heard  her  own  raised  voice,  high  and  des- 
perate. 

"Oh  no,  no!  Stop  and  hear  me!  You  are  mis- 
taken— I  swear  it!" 

The  rearmost  figures,  knives  in  hand,  were  hur- 
rying by.  It  seemed  as  though  their  ears  were 
stopped  with  wax.  They  looked  neither  to  the  right 
nor  to  the  left.  It  was  like  a  bizarre  nightmare  in 
which  one  is  afflicted  at  once  with  horror  and  im- 
potence. Now  the  last  had  gone  past  her,  not  turn- 
ing his  head  to  look,  and  the  foremost  were  plung- 
ing into  the  jungle.  The  night  seemed  as  blank 
and  void  as  a  hollow  globe  of  ebony  now  that  the 
torches  were  gone.  Safa  turned  blindly  to  the  man 
beside  her,  holding  out  her  hands.  Her  voice  al- 
most failed  her. 

"They  would  not  listen  to  me.  .  .  .  Akbar  .  .  . 
help  me.  .  .  .  Save  my  son.  Save  him,  Akbar,  and 


THE     SUTTEE 253 

I  will  give  thee  thy  answer — I  will  tell  thee  all  that 
is  in  my  heart.  .  .  .  Save  my  son.  .  .  .  ' 

He  took  her  hands  and,  drawing  her  to  him, 
placed  them  about  his  neck,  while  she  trembled  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Thou  dost  love  me,  then?" 

There  was  a  tense,  hungry  triumph  in  the  whis- 
pered question.  The  whole  nature  of  the  man  was 
merged  in  one  desire  that  left  space  for  nothing 
else.  But  in  the  woman,  hitherto  dominated  almost 
wholly  by  her  answering  passion  for  him,  the  tor- 
tured mother-feeling  had  risen  again,  submerging  all 
things  else. 

"Oh,  do  not  ask  me  now!  My  soul  is  sick  with 
fear.  Only  thou  canst  save  my  son!  Go— go,  Ak- 
bar!  And  when  thou  returnst  to  me  thou  shalt 
know  the  truth!" 

"Then  I  will  go  instantly — and  return  to  claim 
thee  in  flesh  and  spirit — mine !" 

He  kissed  her  lips  again,  briefly,  exultantly — she 
unresisting,  and  then  released  her. 

Then  several  events  took  place  which  Safa  saw 
and  comprehended  as  a  person  partially  under  the 
influence  of  some  deadening  drug  might  see  and 
comprehend.  The  torch-bearing  soldiers  were  about 
them  again  and  Akbar  spoke  with  the  Amir — of 
her,  it  seemed,  or  perhaps  of  other  matters.  They 
led  forward  a  black  Arabian  stallion,  well-built  and 


254      THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

exquisitely  proportioned,  with  golden  bit  and  shovel 
stirrups  and  gilded  hoofs.  Akbar  sprang  into  the 
high  saddle,  controlling  the  splendid  creature,  all  fire 
and  fret,  as  a  firm  man  rules  a  child.  A  sudden 
great  and  poignant  pride  in  him  stabbed  the  heart 
of  the  woman  who  loved  him.  The  stallion  sprang 
away  into  the  night  at  a  furious  gallop,  half  a  dozen 
mounted  troopers  following,  and  a  curiously  breath- 
less stillness  succeeded  the  sounds  of  galloping  hoof- 
beats. 

The  soldiers  were  gathered  in  a  group  a  dozen 
yards  away  or  more.  They  did  not  watch  the 
woman,  but  spoke  among  themselves  in  low  voices. 
All  around  lay  the  stark  dead,  invested  with  the 
peculiar  horror  that  belongs  to  that  which  is  unseen. 
The  misty  open  space,  under  an  almost  starless  sky, 
was  like  one  great  death  chamber.  Safa  remem- 
bered the  long,  stiff  thing  with  half  open  eyes  that 
had  once  been  Asaf.  Where  had  they  taken  it? 
.  .  .  Away  at  the  farther  end  of  the  clearing  ap- 
peared two  or  three  torches.  They  drifted  hither 
and  thither  for  a  little  while  in  a  seemingly  aimless 
fashion,  and  then  came  together,  remaining  so  while 
one  might  count  twenty.  A  single  faint  cry  arose. 
,The  torches  moved  again  and  presently  were  gone 
even  as  they  had  come. 

An  unspeakable  desolation  descended  for  the  sec- 
ond time  upon  the  soul  of  Safa.  Her  broken  life 


THE     SUTTEE  255 

and  hopes  lay  about  her  feet  like  the  fallen  dead. 
She  had  lived  to  hear  her  son  curse  her ;  to  see  the 
man  who  had  fathered  him  die  under  the  knife  of 
the  boy  he  had  begotten ;  to  hear  them  cry  that  this 
boy  was  no  son  of  Vickram,  but  a  bastard,  and 
guilty  of  death.  A  deadened  sensation  that  made 
her  feel  strangely  numb  and  sick  came  over  her.  A 
craving  like  that  which  drives  a  dying  animal  to 
darkness  and  loneliness  pressed  upon  her.  It  be- 
came unbearable.  All  her  dull  agony  was  concen- 
trated in  that  one  desire.  She  went  a  few  steps 
toward  the  dark  screen  of  trees,  moving  like  a 
shadow,  and  looked  back  swiftly.  There  were  no 
eyes  upon  her.  The  dewy  grass  brushed  her  knees. 
She  went  forward  again,  reached  the  brink  of  the 
close,  utter  blackness  and  faded  into  the  forest. 


II 

As  the  sun  sank  behind  the  deer  forest  it  grew 
very  dim  in  the  tiny  temple  cell.  As  before,  two 
women  sat  there,  one  very  old,  one  very  young. 
Neither  spoke,  and  the  silence  thickened  about  them 
as  standing  water  thickens.  Outside  in  the  sur- 
rounding wild  places  there  was  no  silence,  but  the 
many  sounds  did  not  penetrate  to  them. 

Dil-Khusha,    never   stirring   a   finger,    crouched 


256      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

among  the  red  cushions,  rigid  as  a  delicate  plaster 
figure,  white  and  still.  Her  terrible,  strained,  dry- 
eyed  look  never  varied.  She  seemed  always  listen- 
ing. The  old  hermit  woman  was  drawn  up  into  a 
small  shapeless  heap.  Silence  and  stillness  had  be- 
come the  deeply  ingrained  habit  of  her  life. 

The  defaced  image  of  the  stone  god  in  his  shal- 
low niche  was  imperceptibly  blotted  out.  A  subtle, 
unmistakable  glow  of  sunset  widened  through  the 
wilderness,  and  even  in  that  inmost  darkened  grotto 
there  came  the  certain  knowledge  that  the  long  day 
had  gone  down  to  the  subdued  splendor  of  its  death- 
bed. They  had  been  waiting  a  long,  long  while. 

There  was  a  loud  rustling  and  crackling  of  jungle 
growths  through  which  something  seemed  to  force 
its  way;  then  the  heavy,  grass-deadened  tread  of 
some  large  creature  was  audible  and  the  low  door- 
way was  unexpectedly  darkened.  Dil-Khusha  sprang 
quivering  to  her  feet.  It  was  as  though  a  crouching 
statuette  had  been  smitten  suddenly  into  life.  She 
was  in  the  doorway  on  the  instant — standing  there 
with  one  hand  clutching  the  stone  doorpost. 

An  Arabian  stallion  had  halted  at  the  threshold. 
The  short,  fiery  muzzle  drooped.  There  was  fresh 
blood  on  the  reeking  flanks  and  blood  on  the  shoul- 
ders. But  the  saddle  was  empty.  The  horse,  breath- 
ing distressfully,  raised  its  beautiful  head  and  looked 
piteously  at  the  girl.  Dil-Khusha,  with  a  sharp, 


THE    SUTTEE *57 

broken  sob,  sank  on  her  knees  in  the  doorway  and 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  She  swayed  so 
a  moment  and  then  fell  face  downward  on  the 
floor  of  the  cell,  sobbing  brokenly. 

The  slow  minutes  passed.  The  girl  upon  the  floor 
sobbed  bitterly,  weeping  without  hope  and  without 
comfort.  The  sound  of  her  weeping  was  the  only 
sound  to  break  the  stillness.  After  a  time  the  old 
woman  stirred.  She  crept  over  to  the  girl  and 
touched  her  shaking  shoulder. 

"My  child,  how  dost  thou  know  that  he  is  dead  ?" 
Her  voice  was  scarcely  more  than  a  dry  whisper, 
but  the  still  air  carried  it  to  the  ears  of  the  weeping 
girl. 

The  answer  came  smothered  and  broken — almost 
strangled. 

"His — his  horse.  ...  It  is  at  the  door.  ...  It 

— would  not  have  come  away  .  .  .  unless  he 

Oh,  why  did  they  not  take  my  life  at  the  same  mo- 
ment! He  is  my  life — and  my  life  is  dead!  Oh 
gods — oh  gods!"  An  inarticulate  agony  seized  and 
choked  her  and  she  could  say  no  more. 

Presently  the  barren  old  woman  spoke  again. 
"He  is  dead,  perhaps — thy  husband,  but  thou  hast 
been  a  wife  and  hast  tasted  the  honey  which  is  de- 
nied to  some.  .  .  .  Thou  hast  known  the  fullness 
of  joy,  which  is  love  fulfilled,  for  to  those  who  live 
in  the  blindness  of  the  cities  or  in  the  blindness  of 


258      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

the  villages  that  is  the  greatest  of  all  joys.  And 
now,  in  a  little  while,  thou  wilt  follow  him  through 
the  fire,  which  thou  wilt  scarcely  feel  because  of  the 
greatness  of  thy  love.  When  thou  hast  passed 
through  it  he  will  take  thee  by  the  hand  and  thou 
wilt  see  and  understand  that  the  life  thou  hast  left 
is  only  a  semblance;  a  shadow  and  a  reflection  of 
the  things  that  are.  .  .  .  Do  not  weep  any  more, 
my  child.  Death  is  only  a  passing  from  that  which 
seems  to  that  which  is.  ...  " 

Gradually  the  sobbing  sank  into  silence.  The  girl 
lay  motionless,  face  downward,  as  she  had  been 
from  the  first.  The  old  woman  rose  and,  like  a 
crooked  ghost,  stole  out  of  the  shrine.  Presently 
she  crept  back  carrying  a  little  earthen  lamp  filled 
with  oil  in  which  burned  a  single  feeble  flame. 

She  set  it  upon  the  floor  at  the  inner  end  of  the 
shrine,  shielding  the  girl  from  the  faint  light  of  it, 
and  crouched  down  beside  it,  watching  the  tiny, 
floating  tongue  of  yellow  flame.  Outside  it  had 
grown  quite  dark. 

Dil-Khusha  raised  herself  a  little.  Her  heavy, 
loosened  hair  hung  about  her  face,  veiling  it.  She 
got  slowly  upon  her  knees,  crouched  back  upon  her- 
self and  so  remained.  In  the  dusk  of  the  hermit 
shrine  she  seemed  a  very  small  and  silken  thing, 
too  slight  and  childish  for  the  heavy  golden  anklets 
that  she  wore,  but  her  heart  was  breaking.  A  calm- 


THE     SUTTEE  259 

ness  that  was  far  more  terrible  than  her  weeping  had 
come  upon  her.  At  the  first,  sobbing  hopelessly, 
she  had  lain  at  the  bottom  of  a  hideous  abyss  of 
blind,  unbearable  despair,  pierced  agonizingly  by 
numberless  little  recollections  of  his  words,  his  ca- 
resses, his  love;  even  of  small  intimate  incidents 
that  had  occurred  on  this  day  or  that.  .  .  .  The  old 
hermit  woman's  shadowy  voice  had  reached  her, 
even  through  the  fierce  torture  of  this  grief,  and 
after  a  time  she  understood  what  she  had  heard. 
Now  she  was  aware  of  only  one  vast,  dull,  irrepar- 
able ache,  which  she  felt  poignantly  in  the  hollow 
void  that  had  been  her  heart.  ...  If  he  could  only 
have  been  brought  to  her — if  she  could  only  have 
held  him  and  whispered  to  him  at  the  last,  telling 
him  all  that  she  seemed  never  to  have  told  him  fully 
— the  inmost  naked  force  and  fire  of  her  loving,  the 
things  which  a  secret  virginal  reserve  had  always 
held  in  leash,  even  against  her  desire.  He  would 
never  know  them  now  .  .  .  until  the  fire  was 
passed. 

She  winced  under  a  long,  violent  shudder.  It 
was  impossible  to  realize  what  might  be  beyond. 
The  Brahmins  said  this  and  that,  but  how  did  they 
know?  No  one  knew,  neither  she  nor  they.  Her 
husband  was  dead  and  she  was  about  to  die.  She 
must.  If  there  was  no  fire  she  would  kill  herself 
with  poison  or  a  knife,  for  she  could  not  endure  to 


260      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

live.  But  this  was  an  ending  of  it  all,  like  the  put- 
ting out  of  a  lamp.  An  inexorable,  inexpressible 
bleakness  widened  about  her  like  a  limitless  lead- 
colored  plain,  and  she  sat  as  it  were  in  the  midst  of 
this  desolation  without  tears  and  without  hope. 
The  mirage  of  the  waste  had  builded  a  fugitive 
oasis  of  trees  and  bushes,  but  the  only  things  that 
had  reality  were  the  long,  motionless  ridges  of 
leaden  sand.  She  knew  that  now,  yet  faced  the 
hideous  fiery  agony  that  was  before  her  with  the 
dumb  acceptance  that  was  her  birthright. 

Time  passed.  The  girl  whose  heart  was  dead  sat 
as  before.  The  aged  woman,  whose  heart  had  never 
known  full  life,  crouched  above  the  flame  of  the 
lamp.  Darkness  encompassed  them,  and  a  greater 
darkness  possessed  the  soul  of  the  girl.  The  tongue 
of  fire  floating  in  the  shallow  lamp-saucer  bloomed 
like  a  little  faintly  yellow  flower  that  lightens  a  dark 
place.  It  seemed  also  a  tiny  symbol  of  the  living 
human  hope  that  is  stronger  at  the  last  than  life 
and  death. 

There  was  a  sound  outside.  Some  one  stood  at 
the  threshold  looking  in — a  gray-bearded  man  with 
a  bare  sword.  Presently  a  deep  voice  said  huskily: 
"Art  thou  there,  gracious  lady?  It  is  thy  servant, 
Shitab  Rai  who  speaks.  .  .  .  ' 

"I  am  here,  Shitab  Rai." 

The  voice  was  toneless. 


THE     SUTTEE  261 

"Gracious  lady,  this  morning  we  were  an  army, 
to-night  we  are  nothing.  ...  It  is  the  will  of  God. 
...  I  go  now  to  seek  for  my  master  and  your  lord. 
I  have  with  me  one  who  saw  him  charge  a  body  of 
three  hundred  horse,  alone,  and  who  knoweth  the 
place.  If  God  favors  us  I  will  bring  him  hither. 
I  salute  thee,  gracious  lady." 

"I  have  heard  thee,  Shitab  Rai,"  the  child-wife 
spoke  gravely,  Stirling  her  grief  stoically. 

The  figure  at  the  doorway  melted  again  into  the 
night.  Another  blank  time  of  waiting  descended 
upon  the  hermit  shrine.  A  fierce,  dreading,  hunger- 
ing impatience  began  to  dawn  in  the  girl.  She  put 
back  her  hair  with  both  hands  and  turned  her  face 
to  the  blind  dark  outside.  ...  If  only  she  could 
have  kissed  him  once  before  he  went  from  her. 
.  .  .  Great  tears  came  to  her  eyes — the  first  for  a 
long  while,  and  they  seemed  to  ease  the  dry,  hollow 
aching.  They  crept  slowly  down  her  face  while  she 
looked  steadily  out  into  the  night. 

A  red  pulsing  star  blinked  suddenly.  But  stars 
do  not  stray  through  the  thick  jungle  like  the  wan- 
dering ghosts  of  women  who  die  in  childbirth.  It 
disappeared.  Then  a  brief,  empty  pause,  and  then 
the  open  front  of  the  shrine  was  smitten  by  a  ruddy, 
unsteady  light  that  grew.  Dil-Khusha  rose.  Her 
face  was  colorless  as  ivory ;  its  contour  was  strangely 
sharpened  as  in  one  who  has  undergone  famine, 


262      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

and  her  eyes  were  wide  and  fixed.  Two  armed  men 
who  carried  fire-baskets  came  first.  They  planted 
one  on  either  side  of  the  low  doorway  and  stood 
back.  Then  came  the  old  Rajput,  Shitab  Rai,  walk- 
ing slowly,  his  head  lowered.  At  the  threshold  he 
salaamed  profoundly  and  then  also  withdrew  a  little. 
Four  soldiers  bearing  a  litter  made  of  lances  and 
covered  with  a  leopard  skin  followed  him,  treading 
very  cautiously.  Upon  the  litter  lay  a  young  man 
in  a  shirt  of  chain  mail,  his  head  bound  with  a 
blood-stained  cloth.  The  girl  in  the  doorway  did 
not  speak  or  move.  They  laid  the  litter  down  at 
her  feet  and  went  aside.  A  long  minute  passed. 
The  face  of  the  man  upon  the  litter  twitched  slightly ; 
the  eyelids  quivered  and  half  lifted. 

There  was  a  loud  cry,  sharp  and  unnatural — 
"He  is  not  dead!" 

"He  lives,  gracious  lady" — it  was  the  old  Rajput 
who  spoke — "but  it  is  no  more  than  the  last  flicker 
of  the  flame  before  it  is  extinguished.  I  feared 
that  the  spirit  would  pass  from  him  before  we  could 
bear  him  hither." 

Dil-Khusha  did  not  hear  him.  Her  knees  gave 
way  and  she  sank  down  suddenly  where  she  had 
stood,  shaken  with  hysterical  weeping.  Some  one 
crept  over  to  her  and  touched  her  hair,  seeking  per- 
haps to  quiet  her,  but  the  girl  was  overwrought 
beyond  all  self-control.  Dimly  she  heard  move- 


THE     SUTTEE  263 

ments  about  her  and  a  hoarse  lowered  voice;  then 
the  soothing  hand,  light  and  tremulous,  was  with- 
drawn from  her  hair  and  there  was  a  faint  retreat- 
ing sound. 

Nothing  moved  or  spoke.  After  a  little  pause 
the  crouching  girl  lifted  her  face. 

The  tiny  earthen  lamp  had  been  set  on  the  ledge 
before  the  stone  image.  The  two  fire  baskets  flared 
at  the  entrance  and  the  place  was  lit  with  leaping 
firelight.  The  narrow  litter  covered  with  the  leop- 
ard skin  had  been  carried  bodily  into  the  shrine  and 
laid  upon  the  floor.  The  eyes  of  the  man  upon  it 
were  closed.  They  were  alone. 

A  frantic  fear  seized  her,  infinitely  more  terrible 
because  of  the  sudden  blinding  hope  that  had 
stricken  her  to  her  knees.  She  crept  to  the  head  of 
the  litter  and  knelt  there,  her  whole  being  one  pierc- 
ing anguish. 

This  was  her  lover — her  husband — this  man  with 
the  blood-soaked  bandage  about  his  brows  and  the 
strange,  still,  sunken  look.  As  he  lay  now  so  he  had 
lain  beside  her  through  the  nights  that  were  gone. 
.  .  .  The  man  gave  a  slight  sigh  and  again  his 
eyes  half  opened. 

Instantly  the  tearless  agony  became  a  pitiful  and 
trembling  joy.  The  girl  leaned  over  him  until  her 
lips  almost  touched  his. 

"My  lord!" 


264      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

All  her  soul  was  in  the  shaken  whisper.  The 
man's  eyes  opened  fully.  His  lips  moved.  "Heart's 
Delight.  .  .  .  '  It  was  scarcely  louder  than  the 
drawing  of  a  breath,  but  she  understood. 

"Oh  my  lord — my  love!"  She  leant  still  lower 
and  kissed  him.  His  lips  were  cold,  but  they  very 
faintly  answered  the  touch  of  hers.  His  eyes  closed 
again.  The  girl  watched  him,  scarcely  breathing. 
Had  the  flickering  flame  sunk  into  darkness  even 
as  they  kissed? 

A  slight  shudder  passed  over  the  dying  man.  His 
eyes  opened  and  there  was  light  and  life  in  them. 
For  a  few  moments  he  lay  looking  up  at  her — a 
look  of  full  consciousness;  then  he  spoke  weakly. 

"It  is  good  to  be  with  thee  again,  Heart's  De- 
light. .  .  .  There  must  have  been  three  hundred 
of  them  .  .  .  and  I  was  alone  ...  I  rallied  them 
.  .  .  but  the  wounded  elephant  broke  our  ranks. 
.  .  .  Thy  father  hath  scattered  us.  .  .  .  ' 

Instinctively  the  girl  knew  that  it  was  only  the 
last  upleap  of  the  expiring  flame.  She  knelt  beside 
him,  agonizing  under  a  love  that  transfixed  her  like 
a  two-edged  knife.  Suddenly  she  sank  right  down 
and  laid  her  face  against  his. 

"I  cannot  let  thee  go  from  me!  .  .  .  We  have 
been  happy  such  a  short  while  .  .  .  and  I  had 
prayed  that  I  might  bear  thee  a  child.  .  .  .  '  Her 
sobbing  shook  her  whole  slight  body. 


THE     SUTTEE  265 

Again  the  man  spoke  weakly:  "Hush,  Heart's 
Delight.  I  cannot  move.  .  .  .  Canst  thou  raise  me 
a  little?" 

She  understood  what  it  was  that  he  desired,  and 
with  much  effort  lifted  him  until  his  wounded  head 
rested  upon  her  girl's  breast.  Presently  he  said: 
"Thou  wilt  follow  me  ...  soon  .  .  .  Heart's  De- 
light?" 

"I  will  be  with  thee  before  the  morning,  my  hus- 
band." 

"So  it  is  only  ...  a  little  parting  .  .  .  until  the 
coming  of  the  daystar  .  .  .  my  wife." 

A  wonderful  poignant  joy  was  dawning  in  the 
soul  of  the  girl.  She  bent  still  lower  above  the 
man  whose  head  lay  upon  her  breast.  His  face  had 
taken  a  gray,  drawn  look. 

"Heart's  Delight  ...  it  is  the  end  ...  "  he 
whispered.  "Let  me  touch  thy  lips." 

And  even  as  she  kissed  him  the  flickering  flame 
was  extinguished. 

For  many  moments  Dil-Khusha  stayed  unmoving, 
holding  the  dead  man  in  her  arms.  She  looked 
straight  before  her  through  the  doorway  where 
the  twin  fire  baskets  glared  into  the  blank,  black 
heart  of  the  jungle.  She  was  looking  from  a  death 
chamber  across  a  fiery  gateway  into  an  unknow- 
able darkness  where  a  bridegroom  waited  for  his 
bride.  The  flaming  gateway  was  between,  but  it 


266      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

was  the  portal  of  a  bridal  chamber  where  death 
would  enter  nevermore. 

There  was  no  sorrow  in  the  girl's  face;  only  a 
great  unearthly  eagerness  that  transfigured  her.  She 
kissed  the  dead  man  tenderly  several  times  and  laid 
him  back  upon  the  litter.  Then  she  rose,  put  back 
the  hair  from  her  eyes  and  knotted  it  upon  her  neck 
with  light,  deft,  steady  hands.  Then,  going 
quickly  to  the  doorway,  she  stood  there  and  called 
aloud : 

"Shitab  Rai."  The  old  Rajput  was  before  her 
almost  on  the  instant  as  it  seemed,  and  with  him 
there  came  others. 

Dil-Khusha,  standing  in  the  doorway,  full  in  the 
smoky  fire-glare,  looked  as  it  were  through  them 
and  beyond  them  into  the  night.  She  spoke  in  a 
high,  unshaken  voice. 

"My  lord  is  dead.  Take  him  and  prepare  all 
things  for  the  burning.  Do  not  delay,  for  I  have 
promised  to  meet  my  lord  before  the  morning." 

The  little  lamp,  burning  peacefully  before  the 
nameless,  man-made,  man-forgotten  image,  very 
faintly  illumined  the  one-celled  hermit  shrine  im- 
bedded in  the  midnight  forest.  A  girl  of  sixteen 
stood  in  the  midst  of  the  narrow  place  and  an  aged 
woman  knelt  at  her  feet  where  a  small,  heavy,  teak- 
wood  box,  bound  with  iron,  gaped  open. 


THE     SUTTEE  267 

The  girl,  short,  slight  and  beautifully  rounded — 
a  bud  poised  upon  the  exquisite  verge  of  flowering 
rather  than  a  blown  blossom — was  swathed  in  semi- 
opaque  white  silk  with  broad  gilt  borders.  Her 
hair,  smoothed  evenly  above  her  brows,  was  braided 
tightly  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  a  golden  flower 
was  fastened  in  it.  A  headband  of  turquoises  three 
inches  broad  was  bound  upon  her  forehead;  she 
wore  a  collar  of  diamonds  and  a  great  gold  crescent, 
from  which  depended  a  tassel  of  seed  pearls,  hung  in 
each  of  her  small  ears.  Her  slim,  pretty  arms  were 
loaded  from  wrist  to  elbow  with  armlets  of  silver, 
gold  and  jade;  her  high  anklets  enclosed  the  small 
ankles  like  golden  sheaths.  Rings  set  with  large 
rubies,  sapphires  and  catseyes  crowded  upon  all 
her  fingers  and  upon  the  toes  of  her  little  naked 
feet.  She  was  adorned  as  only  a  bride  is  adorned, 
and  her  expectancy  was  surely  the  expectancy  of  a 
bride. 

Dil-Khusha  quivered  from  head  to  foot.  Her 
eyes  were  bright,  almost  with  the  brilliancy  of  fever, 
and  her  hands  restless.  The  aged,  barren  woman 
at  her  feet  peered  into  the  depths  of  the  open  box, 
feeling  with  claw-like  fingers.  After  a  minute  she 
withdrew  her  hands  from  the  search. 

"There  are  no  more,  my  child.  Thou  hast  them 
all." 

"That  is  well,  mother.     Is  there  not  a  dash  of 


268      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

orange-flower  water  in  the  box  ?    It  is  the  marriage 
perfume.    I  will  have  no  other." 


Ill 

Then  said  Bisesa:  I  am  near  to  death 
And  have  the  wisdom  of  the  grave  for  gift, 
To  bear  me  on  the  path  my  feet  must  tread  .  .  . 
"The  Sacrifice  of  Er-Heb" — Kipling. 

When  Safa,  driven  by  her  tortured  soul,  crossed 
the  indefinite  threshold  of  the  forest  she  came  into 
a  blind  midnight  chamber  thronged  with  unseen 
growth.  Leaves  touched  her  like  the  tips  of  light 
fingers.  With  hands  outstretched  she  went  further 
into  the  labyrinth,  going  always  forward.  She 
began  to  see  a  little,  distinguishing  trees  from  one 
another  in  the  darkness.  No  other  life  seemed  vis- 
ible. The  human  tempest  that  had  been  driven  back 
and  forth  through  the  wild  places  had  scared  all  the 
swift,  timid  things  from  their  sanctuary,  and  the 
lesser  creatures  were  hidden  and  silent. 

Safa  stood  still.  The  close  jungle  night  seemed 
to  enfold  her  in  a  formless  embrace,  soft  as  masses 
of  black  wool.  She  felt  like  a  child  gathered  into 
the  lap  of  a  merciful,  dark  mother,  with  the 
mother's  thick,  black  veil  cast  about  her  and  the 
great  unseen  breasts,  rich  with  peace.  She  seemed 


THE     SUTTEE  269 

to  draw  balm  from  those  shadowy  breasts  even  as 
a  child  draws  life.  A  desire  for  sound  sleep  came 
upon  her.  How  good  to  sleep  there  in  the  lap  of 
the  Dark  Mother,  with  the  straight  and  twisted  tree 
trunks  thronging  about  one  and  the  many  little  flut- 
tering leaves.  .  .  .  Safa  raised  her  arms  above  her 
head  with  a  deep,  soft  sigh.  She  was  unutterably 
weary,  and  she  had  come  into  a  place  of  peace. 

From  somewhere  in  the  darkness,  close  to  the 
ground  and  near,  came  a  low,  gasping  moan.  Then 
the  soothing  silence  dropped  back  like  the  fall  of  a 
curtain. 

A  violent  shudder  seized  the  woman  who  had 
thought  that  she  was  alone.  Terror  overcame  her 
suddenly.  All  the  hunted  misery  of  her  soul,  which 
had  fallen  from  her,  clutched  at  her  again  like  the 
clawing  hand  of  a  ghoul.  For  a  little  while  her 
spirit  had  stood  like  the  spirit  of  a  child  in  a  sweet 
security,  fenced  with  loneliness  and  with  the  sweet 
flowers  of  peace  about  her.  Now  she  was  in  the 
maze  of  a  midnight  jungle,  with  all  her  griefs  press- 
ing upon  her,  and  back  in  the  forest  there  was  a 
wounded  man  who  moaned. 

A  strong  hysterical  dread  lest  he  should  moan 
again  laid  hold  of  her  and  she  went  quickly  for- 
ward, feeling  her  way  with  nervous  hands.  A  little 
further  on  she  stumbled  over  a  body  which  did  not 
moan,  and  her  soul  sickened  with  the  horror  of  an 


270      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

evil  dream.  .  .  .  Fallen  tree  trunks  raised  massive, 
rounded  barriers;  there  were  entangling  nets  of 
close  leaf-meshes  and  treacherous  places  of  loose, 
broken  rocks.  It  was  like  a  blind  nightmare  through 
which  a  terrified,  grief-hunted  creature  groped  and 
struggled,  and  after  a  long,  long  time  there  was  a 
sudden  rift  in  the  evil  dream,  and  in  the  rift  burned 
a  red  flame  of  fire. 

The  flame  vibrated  like  a  feverish  pulse,  and  the 
rift  was  a  gap  betwixt  two  distorted  tree  trunks 
covered  with  knots  like  misshapen  warts.  The 
woman,  who  had  come  in  terror  through  the  jungle, 
was  flooded  with  an  unspeakable  relief.  It  was  as 
when  a  sick  person,  striving  to  escape  from  some 
delirious  horror  of  the  night,  becomes  suddenly 
aware  of  the  light  of  a  little  oil  lamp  as  a  friend 
enters  the  dark  room.  Passing  between  the  twisted, 
warty  trunks,  she  moved  swiftly  toward  the  flame. 

The  nature  of  the  thick  jungle  about  her  changed 
abruptly.  Underfoot  spread  bare,  level  ground, 
pebbly  and  ringed  with  tree  roots.  Slim,  straight 
tree  shafts  were  everywhere,  spaced  almost  as  regu- 
larly as  a  forest  of  thin  columns  in  a  cavernous 
temple,  and  high  overhead  a  denseness  of  long 
leaves,  all  of  one  sort,  resembled  an  unbroken  temple 
roof.  It  was  a  banyan  grove — the  grove  that  is  one 
multi-shafted  tree,  indestructible,  longer-lived  than 
nations  and  religions,  and  sacred  throughout  India. 


THE     SUTTEE 271 

By  the  central  trunk,  massive  as  a  stone  pillar,  stood 
a  small,  domed  shrine,  dedicated  to  Kali.  Before 
this  shrine  burnt  the  fire  that  had  drawn  a  soul 
from  the  pit  of  fear,  summoning  it  with  a  red,  beck- 
oning ringer.  It  lit  up  brightly  the  front  of  Kali's 
little  shrine,  and  the  weakening  vibrations  of  light 
widened  outward  through  the  empty  tunnels  of  the 
grove. 

The  woman,  who  had  come  out  of  the  forest,  had 
almost  reached  the  inner  circle  of  slender  shafts 
that  ringed  the  central  trunk  when  she  stopped 
again.  There  were  men  sitting,  stooping  and  stand- 
!ing  about  the  fire.  They  were  naked,  and  their 
long  hair  hung  below  their  waists.  The  leanness 
of  them  was  like  the  leanness  of  famine ;  they  wore 
beards  matted  like  the  jungle  grass,  and  a  thin, 
crinkled,  hairy  growth  covered  their  breasts.  It 
might  have  been  a  gathering  of  semi-human  crea- 
tures mimicking  man  as  the  apes  mimic.  Safa,  look- 
ing fearfully  from  the  outer  dimness,  saw  what  they 
were  doing.  One  of  them  stood  motionless,  full  in 
the  firelight,  with  both  arms  raised  above  his  head. 
It  was  some  moments  before  she  realized  that  he 
could  not  lower  them  if  he  would.  After  long  years 
of  rigidity  the  shrunken  muscles  had  petrified.  An- 
other, raking  out  glowing  embers  from  the  fire-heap, 
trod  backward  and  forward  over  them,  and  another 
scored  his  breast  deliberately  with  a  jagged  flint 


272      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

knife,  drawing  blood.  Absolute  silence  possessed 
the  banyan  grove.  The  leaping  firelight  illuminated 
the  crude  image  of  painted  terra  cotta  within  the 
shrine.  The  four-armed  goddess  was  black  as  a 
coal,  with  three  staring,  scarlet,  almond-shaped  eyes 
and  a  protruding  scarlet  tongue.  A  horrible  thought 
laid  hand  on  Safa.  In  her  desolation  she  had  sought 
the  abiding  inner  spirit  of  the  forest,  thinking  of  it 
as  a  mighty,  merciful  Dark  Mother  with  peace  upon 
her  ample  knees,  and  here,  in  the  holy  heart  of  the 
wilderness,  she  was  face  to  face  with  Kali,  who  is 
the  Black  Mother — Kali,  who  rejoices  in  terrible 
slaughter  and  in  the  running  of  rivers  of  blood; 
whose  feet  are  set  upon  the  headless  dead,  and 
whose  necklace  is  made  up  of  bleeding  heads.  Thin 
lines  of  staring  red  were  drawn  upon  the  naked 
breast  of  the  fakir  who  had  scored  himself  with  a 
flint  knife.  Safa  remembered  the  dead  man  she 
had  stumbled  over  in  the  dark  and  the  faint  moan- 
ing that  had  come  from  the  deep  grass.  The  forest 
was  strewn  with  death  and  sprinkled  with  the  blood 
of  men,  and  in  the  inmost  shrine  of  it  dwelt  a  hide- 
ous Dark  Mother  with  protruding  tongue. 

The  woman,  standing  just  beyond  the  brightness 
of  the  firelight,  glided  away  like  a  tall,  white  ghost, 
threading  the  dimness  of  the  strange,  sacred  grove 
at  whose  center  a  flame  pulsed  like  the  heart-beats 
of  a  human  body.  Again  the  curious  numbness  had 


THE    SUTTEE 273 

come  upon  Safa.  She  chose  her  way  carefully, 
going  slowly  now,  without  acute  fear  and  without 
any  hope.  Small  bats  flitted  hither  and  thither, 
and  occasionally  a  night  bird  cried  out  shrilly.  The 
jungle  seemed  of  infinite  extent,  though  in  reality 
the  distance  she  had  come  was  not  very  great.  An 
immense  physical  weariness  dragged  at  her,  weaken- 
ing her  knees.  She  moved  in  a  daze,  knowing  that 
she  must  go  forward,  and  suffering  in  her  body 
rather  than  in  her  mind. 

An  hour  passed.  A  strong  light  shone  through 
the  chinks  of  the  gathered  trees  and  a  murmurous 
human  sound  mingled  with  the  light  like  a  mingling 
of  silver  with  molten  gold.  A  woman,  whose  thin, 
clinging,  silken  drapery  was  wet  with  dew  and 
whose  naked  feet  were  bleeding,  came  very  slowly 
toward  the  light.  Half  fearfully  she  stood  in  the 
stiff  grass,  looking  between  the  stems  of  a  screen  of 
young  bamboos.  After  a  minute  or  two  she  parted 
the  slender  stalks  and  passed  out  into  the  glare  of 
half  a  hundred  torches. 

It  was  a  large,  green,  oval  space,  sparsely  grassed, 
on  the  eastward  fringe  of  the  deer  forest.  A  tiny 
village  of  a  hundred  souls  or  less,  straggled  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  jungle  not  fifty  yards  away,  and  all 
the  villagers  who  were  not  halt,  blind  or  sick  were 
gathered  in  the  clearing — men,  women  and  children. 
At  the  center  of  the  space  was  an  oblong  stack  of 


274      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

hewn  logs,  built  up  evenly  like  a  great  altar  pre- 
pared for  a  burnt  sacrifice.  Upon  the  flat  summit 
of  the  pile  was  laid  a  strip  of  white  brocade,  worked 
with  raised  peacocks,  and  a  resplendent  image  of 
the  sun  in  heavy  gold  cord  and  golden  thread  and 
sprinkled  with  pearls  and  small  vari-colored  gems. 
There  were  two  or  three  pure-robed  Brahmins  with 
scarlet  slippers,  small  scarlet  turbans  and  sacred 
marks  upon  their  foreheads,  and  a  dozen  Rajput 
soldiers,  who  held  torches,  stood  like  men  of  wood, 
four  on  each  side  of  the  high  logpile.  More  than 
half  of  these  were  freshly  wounded,  and  from  be- 
neath a  stained  bandage  bound  about  the  head  of 
one  of  them  the  blood  oozed  in  large,  slow,  bright 
drops  that  shone  like  glistening  rubies  in  the  flare 
of  the  torches.  The  crowd  of  village  folk,  changing 
places  continually  among  themselves,  kept  well  back 
from  the  strange  altar  of  built-up  logs.  Every  now 
and  then  a  miserable,  mangy  village  dog  would  ven- 
ture tentatively  out  into  the  open,  be  seized  with 
acute  embarrassment  at  its  own  isolation  and  retire 
hurriedly,  with  vague  apprehension  in  its  yellow 
eye.  Overhead  the  night  sky  appeared  dead  and 
black  as  an  overarching  vault  of  coal  by  contrast 
with  the  strong  and  steady  torchlight. 

Safa,  coming  out  between  the  parted  bamboos, 
went  two  or  three  steps  forward  and  paused.  On 
her  right  was  a  plump  woman  whose  red  cotton 


THE     SUTTEE 275 

drapery  was  closely  spotted  with  violent  orange;  on 
her  left  was  a  thin  child  of  about  thirteen,  with  a 
sensitive,  sharpened  face  of  infinite  pathos,  wrapped 
in  a  large  black  and  yellow  veil,  and  with  a  heavy 
baby  upon  her  hip.  Both  of  these,  half  turning, 
regarded  her  as  though  the  jungle  had  yielded  up 
a  divinity.  They  saw  a  tall  woman  wrapped  in  a 
white  silk  robe'  with  a  silver  hem,  while  a  pendant 
ruby  rested  upon  her  forehead  in  the  place  of  the 
crimson  marriage  mark.  A  subtle  atmosphere  of 
attar  of  rose  pervaded  her,  touching  their  senses  like 
delicate,  pink-tinged  ringers  dipped  in  a  syrup  of 
flowers.  Her  skin  was  finely  soft  and  fair,  and  her 
fingernails  had  the  fine  polish  of  jasper.  She  had 
come  upon  them  as  suddenly  and  as  silently  as  a 
full  moon  coming  from  behind  a  cloud. 

They  did  not  see  the  stain  of  blood  in  the  dust 
where  she  had  set  her  feet,  or  the  shadows,  dark 
almost  as  the  shadows  of  death,  that  were  beneath 
her  beautiful  eyes.  For  a  full  minute  the  girl  and 
the  woman  stared,  and  then  Safa  glanced  first  at 
one  and  then  at  the  other  and  they  looked  quickly 
away  from  her.  Half  a  dozen  more  on  either  side 
observed  her  tall  presence,  staring  openly  or  fur- 
tively; but  the  broad  red  and  orange  matron 
screened  her  partially,  and  the  rest  had  eyes  only 
for  the  Brahmins  and  the  pile  of  logs. 

For  the  first  few  moments  Safa  was  bewildered. 


276      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

What  were  all  these  people  doing  here  in  the  night  ? 
She  saw  fat,  sleepy  babies  sitting  astride  their 
mother's  hips,  some  raising  a  peevish,  tired  whine. 
Other  children  clung  silently  to  their  skirts.  Then 
across  the  plump  shoulder  of  the  bulky  woman,  who 
breathed  heavily,  she  saw  the  stack  of  hewn  wood 
and  the  Brahmins. 

A  violent  shock  almost  bereft  her  of  conscious- 
ness. The  delirious  fear  and  unreality  that  had  be- 
set her  in  the  jungle  came  again.  Seventeen  years 
before  she  had  fled  guiltily  from  such  a  funeral 
pyre — had  fled  from  her  ordained  and  sacred  fate 
— and  by  so  doing  had  incurred  the  curse  of  heaven 
and  earth  and  of  her  only  son.  What  was  it  that 
had  brought  her  through  the  midnight  forest  to  this 
pyre  prepared  surely  for  a  suttee?  She  felt  as 
though  she  had  Heen  drawn,  unknowingly,  yet  by 
chains  of  iron,  to  this  altar  of  her  unfulfilled  but 
irrevocable  destiny.  Helplessness,  fear  and  a  ter- 
rible sense  of  guilt  overwhelmed  her.  She  almost 
expected  the  crowd  to  open  and  the  Brahmins  to 
advance  toward  her.  These  other  women  with  the 
copper  anklets  and  the  brass  nose  rings — these 
mothers  with  the  babies  and  the  young  children — 
she  had  no  right  even  to  be  among  them.  She  was 
a  ghost  who  had  escaped  sinfully  from  the  holy 
house  of  death,  even  as  her  feet  were  set  upon  the 
silver  threshold,  and  her  place  was  not  among  the 


THE    SUTTEE 277 

honest,  simple  folk  who  walked  in  the  wholesome 
ways  of  life.  The  shame  of  her  sin  encompassed 
her  like  a  vesture  of  fire.  .  .  . 

Gradually  the  first  acuteness  of  the  shock  passed 
from  her.  None  here  knew  her  or  knew  the  secret 
which  had  been  buried  for  seventeen  years.  She 
had  mingled  by  chance  with  a  simple  crowd  gath- 
ered to  see  the  suttee  of  some  person  of  consequence. 
That  was  all.  They  must  regard  her  presence  as 
very  strange.  A  sudden  thought  of  turning  back 
into  the  jungle  came  to  her,  but  even  as  it  entered 
her  mind  she  knew  that  it  was  impossible.  She 
could  not  face  the  dark  places  again,  alone,  and 
with  unshod  feet.  A  poignant  fascination  in  which 
was  mingled  shame,  curiosity  and  a  kind  of  shrink- 
ing anticipatory  horror,  kept  her  where  she  was. 
She  felt  like  one  who  had  committed  a  detested 
crime  and  who  was  now  led  back  to  the  place  where 
it  had  been  committed,  and  who  would  presently 
view  the  dead  victim.  Yet  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  go  away. 

A  small  boy,  wearing  only  a  loin-cloth,  came 
dodging  eagerly  between  the  little  groups  of  village 
folk  and  ran  against  the  red  and  orange  matron  as 
one  in  hot  haste  might  collide  with  a  bulky  ant  hill. 
The  stout  woman  gripped  him  instantly  by  the 
skinny  arm  and  held  him  while  he  wriggled  like  an 
eel. 


278      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

"Thou  here,  miserable  one!  Wert  thou  not  to 
stay  with  thy  grandmother,  son  of  the  devil?" 

"Why  should  I  stay?  She  is  old  and  deaf  and 
cares  only  to  sleep.  I  am  young  and  a  man,  and 
a  suttee  is  better  than  sweet  cakes.  Let  go  my  arm, 
oh  my  mother!" 

He  wriggled  himself  free. 

"Didst  thou  hear  that,  Sarasvati?  Wait  till  thy 
boy  is  his  age.  Then  thou  wilt  slap  thy  own  face 
as  I  do  for  having  borne  and  suckled  such  a  grace- 
less little  good-for-nothing!" 

The  thin  girl  wrapped  in  black  and  yellow  smiled 
a  faint,  tired  smile  and  resettled  the  stolid  baby  on 
her  hip. 

"Be  it  a  marriage,  a  burning  or  a  cockfight  he  is 
always  in  the  crowd,  learning  shameful  ways.  .  .  . 
Where  is  thy  man?" 

"Yonder."  The  girl  nodded  indifferently  toward 
a  burly,  bearded  fellow  in  a  dirty  turban.  Between 
them  the  small  boy  who  loved  suttees  better  than 
sweet  cakes  squatted  upright  on  his  haunches  like  a 
dog.  The  red  and  orange  matron  crossed  her  hands 
upon  her  high  stomach  and  her  big  bosom  rose  and 
fell  like  the  rhythmic  heaving  of  a  placid  sea. 

The  heavy  throb  of  a  hand-beaten  drum  struck 
across  the  murmur  of  voices  and  the  murmuring 
ceased.  The  drum  throbbed  on  and  on  like  the 
muffled,  measured  pulsing  of  a  heart.  The  crowd 


THE    SUTTEE 279 

was  very  still,  but  there  was  a  slight  movement 
among  the  Brahmins.  The  tall  woman  in  white  by 
the  bamboos  looked  instantly  in  the  direction  of 
the  sound  with  eyes  that  were  terrified  and  expec- 
tant. More  Rajput  soldiers  carrying  torches  en- 
tered the  clearing.  They  joined  those  who  were 
already  there  and  a  steadfast  ring  of  fire  encircled 
the  oblong  pile  of  logs.  The  small  boy  who  squat- 
ted between  the  stout  woman  and  the  girl  rose  and 
stood  on  tip-toe.  The  dry  throb  of  the  single  drum 
seemed  louder,  more  insistent.  An  elderly  man  with 
strong,  stooped  shoulders  and  drops  of  jade  in  his 
ears  entered  the  circle — Shitab  Rai.  Then  came 
four  Rajputs  bearing  a  string  bed  such  as  the  jungle 
village  used,  and  upon  the  narrow  bed  lay  the  body 
of  a  young  and  very  handsome  man.  He  was  clad 
in  white  and  gold,  richly  as  a  bridegroom,  with  a 
twist  of  golden  silk  about  his  brows.  A  bare  sword 
was  laid  upon  the  body  and  the  diamond  hilt  rested 
upon  the  dead  man's  breast.  He  seemed  as  though 
he  were  asleep. 

The  stout  woman  leaned  across  until  her  mouth 
was  at  the  girl's  ear:  "That  bed  was  taken  from 
the  house  of  my  cousin,"  she  confided  in  a  hoarse 
whisper.  The  girl  with  the  baby  did  not  seem  to 
hear.  She  was  staring  with  enthralled,  big,  wistful 
eyes  at  the  dead  man.  "How  beautiful  he  is,"  she 
whispered. 


280      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

Not  far  from  them  the  fellow  with  the  dirty  tur- 
ban stared  likewise,  after  the  manner  of  a  bewil- 
dered buffalo  in  whom  contemplation  rouses  only 
the  vaguest  speculative  faculty. 

The  diamond  sword  hilt  blazed  like  a  constella- 
tion in  which  the  clustered,  milky  stars  flash  and 
tremble  with  fugitive  ruby,  emerald  and  topaz  fires. 
The  woman  in  white  was  looking  also  at  him  who 
lay  on  the  string  bed.  What  was  he?  The  face 
was  not  wholly  strange.  .  .  .  Ah!  She  remem- 
bered now.  She  was  in  a  lofty,  crowded  place, 
pale  as  ivory.  The  air  was  close  and  quivered 
to  the  dull  menace  of  approaching  thunder. 
A  wooden  image  fell  and  a  splendid  young  man, 
stepping  from  the  pedestal,  took  a  girl  into  his 
arms  and  there  was  the  flash  of  a  lifted  sword. 
.  .  .  She  knew  him  at  last — Rajah  Adhiraj. 
He  had  gone  down  under  the  hoofs  of  Akbar's 
horsemen,  and  this  pyre  was  his.  Was  it  also 
for  ... 

The  bearers  had  set  down  the  bed  and  now  the 
head  Brahmin  came  slowly  forward.  He  was  a 
tall,  spare  man  slightly  stooping,  with  straight,  white 
brows  and  a  white  moustache.  A  strange,  ab- 
stracted, yet  far-seeing,  quality  dwelt  in  his  sunken 
eyes,  and  a  certain  serene  dignity,  unruffled  as  the 
surface  of  a  sacred  pond,  invested  him.  He  came  to 
the  head  of  the  bier,  looked  down  almost  like  a  gen- 


THE     SUTTEE 281 

tie  father  upon  the  dead  man,  and  then  spoke  to 
the  people. 

"This,  my  brothers,  is  what  men  call  a  grievous 
sending  from  the  gods.  This  young  man,  a  king, 
having  dominion  over  cities  and  treasures  and  over 
the  lives  of  countless  men  and  beasts,  was  also  a 
lover,  and  in  the  pride  of  his  strength  he  put  forth 
his  hand  to  pluck  a  perfect  spray  of  orange  bloom 
that  blossomed  in  the  secret  garden  of  one  mightier 
than  himself,  and  even  as  he  plucked  it,  and  touched 
the  sweetness  of  the  blossoms  with  his  lips,  the  light 
of  his  life  was  extinguished." 

The  speaker  paused  and  then  went  on,  raising" 
his  voice:  "Yet  why  should  we  deplore  this  thing 
and  why  should  there  be  any  voice  of  lamentation 
when  death,  the  only  priest  who  hath  power  to 
celebrate  an  eternal  marriage,  will  lead  again  the 
bride  unto  her  bridegroom?" 

He  turned  to  the  bearers  of  the  bier :  "Place  him 
who  was  your  master  upon  the  sacred  pyre  which 
hath  been  prepared  for  him." 

In  an  awed  hush  old  Shitab  Rai  and  the  four 
Rajput  soldiers  raised  reverently  the  body  of  the 
young  man  and  laid  him  upon  the  jeweled  strip  of 
white  brocade  that  was  spread  upon  the  summit  Of 
the  pyre.  The  Brahmins,  pouring  liquid  perfume 
from  a  dozen  porcelain  vases,  drenched  the  logs  with 
sweetness. 


282      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

Oily  drops,  distilled  from  Damascus  roses,  dripped 
from  the  pile  of  freshly-cut  wood  and  upon  the 
thirsty  dust  below.  Adhiraj,  son  of  Umra  Singh, 
son  of  Ram  Rai,  the  diamond  hilt  of  his  curved 
sword  upon  his  breast,  slept  his  last  sleep  upon  his 
last  hard  bed  in  the  midst  of  a  jungle  clearing. 

Louder  and  faster  throbbed  the  hand-beaten  drum 
and  now  came  the  hollow  thudding  of  many  others 
in  a  muffled  accompaniment.  A  faint,  confused 
sound,  like  the  sound  of  shaken  bunches  of  little 
bells,  mingled  with  the  thumping  of  the  tom-toms. 
A  vague  rippling  movement  of  expectation  ran 
around  the  circle  of  villagers.  The  stout  woman  in 
red  and  orange  pushed  nearer  to  the  front.  Safa 
did  not  move.  All  her  painfully  fascinated  soul  was 
in  her  eyes. 

More  torch-bearing  Rajputs  entered  the  circle 
and  stood  aside.  A  wide  gap  in  their  ranks  showed 
like  the  mouth  of  a  black  tunnel  opening  passage- 
wise  into  the  mystery  of  the  forest.  Quickly  and 
more  quickly  fell  the  dull,  thudding  blows  upon  the 
hidden  drums,  working  up  to  a  kind  of  climax. 
Lights  appeared  in  the  tunnel,  approaching ;  and  be- 
tween the  torch  lights,  like  the  radiant  dawn  star 
that  comes  in  the  dark  pause  between  the  brilliance 
of  the  night  and  the  brilliance  of  the  day,  came  a 
young  girl  marvelously  jeweled. 

Out  of  the  jungle  wilderness  into  the  crude  glare 


THE     SUTTEE  283 

of  blazing  wood  she  came  sedately  and  paused  just 
within  the  circle,  her  little,  soft,  bare,  ringed  feet 
set  upon  the  sterile  ground,  hard  almost  as  stone. 
She  was  very  lovely,  and  as  fabulously  adorned  as 
a  miracle-working  idol  in  a  famous  shrine.  Against 
her  pure,  smooth  cheeks,  just  touched  with  a  sparkle 
of  gold  dust,  hung  a  pair  of  great  golden  crescents 
that  stirred  as  she  walked,  and  from  each  a  long 
seed-pearl  tassel  fell  almost  to  her  breasts.  Her 
arms,  covered  with  bracelets,  hung  straight  at  her 
sides.  Her  face  was  a  wrapt,  expectant  mask,  and 
it  had  almost  the  look  of  a  young  hermit  saint  who 
perceives  beyond  that  which  is  seen,  that  which  is 
unseen,  as  through  thick  crystal.  She  did  not  seem 
to  be  actually  aware  of  those  who  were  about  her. 
The  feverish  quivering  and  the  fluttering  of  the 
hands  had  gone.  She  was  as  calm  as  her  mother's 
mother  had  been  when  she  stood  upon  the  pyre  of  a 
dead  Rajput  king,  but  her  whole  consciousness 
seemed  to  have  withdrawn  itself  and  to  be  already 
with  the  man  who  had  died  in  her  arms  some  hours 
before.  There  was  no  child  to  link  her  with  the  life 
she  was  leaving;  she  had  lived  only  in  the  life  of 
the  dead  man  as  a  lotus  lily  lives  in  the  slow  cur- 
rent upon  which  it  floats.  She  stood  quite  still,  as 
if  waiting,  without  appearing  to  know  that  she  was 
waiting. 

A  subdued  murmur  of  admiration  arose,  as  when 


284      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

the  gemmed  image  of  a  goddess  is  revealed  to  the 
worshippers. 

Safa  gazed  in  a  kind  of  bewilderment  that  was 
shot  with  acute  horror.  Was  this  the  child  whose 
face,  wet  with  tears,  she  has  pressed  against  her 
breast  in  the  white  Durbar  Hall?  This  girl,  un- 
moving  as  a  golden  idol,  seemed  removed  to  an 
infinite  distance  from  her,  and  from  all  those  who 
were  there.  There  was  nothing  of  the  child  in  her 
still  face. 

The  tom-toms  throbbed  and  the  unseen  bunches 
of  little  bells  were  shaken  without  a  pause.  The 
tall  Brahmin  who  had  spoken  to  the  people  concern- 
ing Adhiraj  came  gravely  forward.  He  saluted  the 
motionless  girl  and  then  spoke  to  her : 

"Oh  Queen,  it  is  our  belief  that  in  this  sacred 
hour  the  Great  Ones  bestow  the  gift  of  prescience 
upon  a  pure  and  faithful  wife.  Is  it  thy  will  before 
thou  goest  into  the  glory  of  the  heaven  of  heavens 
to  disclose  to  any  here  the  fate  that  is  prepared  for 
them?" 

There  was  a  pause.  The  girl  looked  at  him  stead- 
ily, but  almost  as  though  she  looked  through  him 
into  luminous  distances.  She  spoke  clearly,  but  me- 
chanically, in  the  manner  of  one  whose  thought  is 
wholly  concentrated  on  other  matters  and  who  is 
scarcely  aware  of  the  words  that  are  spoken: 

"Thou  hast  a  long  road  yet  before  thee,  and  thou 


THE     SUTTEE 285 

wilt  walk  ever  in  honor  and  piety.  The  love  of 
those  about  thee  is  like  sunlight  upon  thy  head,  and 
thy  soul  is  pure  as  bleached  linen." 

The  unexpected  and  unasked  reply  had  almost 
the  effect  of  an  oracle  uttering  a  divine  message. 
An  overpowering  religious  awe,  blended  with  an 
acute  curiosity  regarding  further  personal  revela- 
tions filled  the  listeners.  The  tall  Brahmin  salaamed 
profoundly  and  retired  a  few  steps,  beaming  with  a 
child-like  pleasure. 

After  a  hesitating  pause  a  mother  timidly  pushed 
her  son,  a  boy  of  seven  or  eight,  a  little  way  into 
the  circle  with  a  humble  murmured  request. 

The  girl  looked  at  the  child  as  she  had  looked  at 
the  man  and  spoke  immediately. 

"Thou  wilt  live  all  thy  days  in  the  shadow  of  the 
house  where  thou  wast  born.  Thou  wilt  know 
sickness,  but  not  hunger,  and  in  thy  turn  thou  wilt 
be  the  father  of  many  and  will  live  to  see  the  chil- 
dren of  thy  children." 

The  small  boy  stared  blankly  and  his  mother, 
murmuring  a  blessing,  drew  him  gently  back  into 
the  little  crowd,  her  doe-like  eyes  soft  with  pleasure. 

Others  came  forward,  men  and  women,  and  the 
be  jeweled  girl  whose  soul  seemed  to  stand  apart, 
intent  upon  other  matters,  spoke  to  each.  Those 
standing  immediately  in  front  of  Safa  melted  away 
as  the  crowd  shifted,  and  she  also  was  drawn  semi- 


286      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

consciously  a  little  nearer  to  the  oracle.  A  man, 
whose  death  by  snake-bite  within  the  year  had  been 
predicted,  shambled  back  to  his  friends,  and  Safa 
found  herself  suddenly  face  to  face  with  the  girl 
wife  of  Adhiraj. 

Two  tragic  eyes,  strangely  abstracted,  and  yet 
with  a  curious  and  indefinable  hint  of  inner  sight, 
met  hers,  and  instantly  she  was  unable  to  look  away. 
She  experienced  an  indescribable  and  wholly  new 
sensation.  It  was  as  though  her  soul  stood  naked 
in  the  light  of  the  torches  and  before  all  these  folk. 
The  desperate  need  of  concealing  this  nakedness  of 
spirit  rose  within  her. 

Then  the  girl  spoke:  "I  see  in  thee  a  miracle. 
Thou  hast  been  cleansed  from  sin  by  sufferings 
more  terrible  than  fire,  and  thou  art  even  now  at 
the  doors  of  death  and  of  release.  Yet  before  thou 
diest  there  is  one  thing  set  for  thee  to  do;  and  that 
thing  is  a  crime,  and  yet  it  is  no  crime,  for  it  is 
to  save  a  soul  thou  lovest." 

The  last  words  were  spoken  very  slowly  and  with 
peculiar  emphasis,  yet  all  the  while  the  young,  sweet, 
almost  childishly  pitched  voice  was  detached,  slightly 
monotonous,  and  wholly  mechanical. 

With  the  final  word  the  girl's  tragic  eyes  ceased 
to  hold  hers  and  Safa,  without  knowing  that  she 
did  so,  turned  and  went  back  a  little  distance.  That 
which  had  been  said  and  the  manner  of  its  saying 


THE     SUTTEE  287 

had  entire  possession  of  her.  For  the  moment  she 
had  become  unconscious  of  the  village  people  and 
of  the  Brahmins  and  of  the  pyre  and  of  what  these 
thfngs  portended.  She  was  in  a  strange  tumult  of 
feeling,  and  her  unsettled  thought  seethed  like 
heated  milk.  To  her  the  truth  of  what  she  had 
been  told  was  beyond  questioning,  and  she  was 
aware  of  a  vague,  anticipatory  dread. 

To  save  a  soul  thou  lovest.  .  .  .  Yes,  there  was 
indeed  a  soul  whose  life  was  her  life  and  from 
whom  she  had  three  times,  with  naked,  bleeding 
hands,  turned  death  aside.  But  now  he  was  surely 
safe  under  the  strong  protection  of  him  who  was 
the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death,  and  yet 

The  tall  Brahmin  was  speaking:  "Divest  thyself 
now  of  all  these  jewels,  which  are  the  ornaments 
of  thy  beauty,  for  thou  earnest  into  life  with  neither 
gold  nor  silver  upon  thee,  and  death  waits  like  a 
priest  to  wed  thy  spirit  to  the  soul  of  thy  husband." 

He  spoke  like  one  who  announces  from  the 
threshold  of  a  temple  some  matter  which  is  at  once 
joyous,  triumphant,  and  most  deeply  sacred. 

Safa,  recalled  instantly  to  the  place  and  circum- 
stance in  which  she  was,  glanced  from  the  fatherly, 
round-shouldered  Brahmin  to  Dil-Khusha,  and  then 
at  the  pyre,  and  a  sickening,  shuddering  pang 
pierced  her  like  a  knife.  But  it  was  impossible  for 
her  to  avert  her  eyes.  The  people  about  her  were 


288      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

deathly  quiet  now,  and  the  circle  was  clear  of  all 
save  Shitab  Rai,  the  Brahmins  and  the  little  bride 
of  death  who  had  spoken  of  the  future  in  a  monoto- 
nous, childish  voice. 

The  tom-toms  thudded  blatantly  in  the  stillness, 
the  little  bells  were  shaken,  and  there  was  the  sub- 
dued crackle  of  burning  wood. 

Dil-Khusha  did  not  move.  She  resembled  some 
one  in  a  kind  of  semi-trance.  Only  her  breast  rose 
and  fell  as  markedly  and  regularly  as  the  bosom  of 
a  sleeper.  There  was  a  pause  and  then  an  old,  old 
woman  with  tangled  white  hair,  who  was  crooked 
as  the  senile,  crescent  moon,  crept  into  the  clearing. 

Wrapped  in  a  coarse,  white  shroud,  she  shuffled 
over  to  the  girl,  took  her  right  hand  and  began  trem- 
ulously to  draw  off  the  jeweled  rings.  Almost  in- 
stantly Dil-Khusha  seemed  to  waken.  An  indefin- 
able subtle  strangeness  fell  from  her  like  a  discarded 
garment,  leaving  her  a  girl  of  sixteen  years  about  to 
meet  her  suttee.  She  said  something  quickly  to 
the  aged  woman,  withdrew  her  hand  and  com- 
menced hurriedly  to  free  her  arms  from  the  in- 
numerable bracelets.  The  shrunken,  sexless  crea- 
ture in  the  cotton  shroud  crouched  down  to  the 
earth,  fumbling  with  the  girl's  golden  ankle-sheaths. 

Dil-Khusha  appeared  possessed  by  a  consuming 
eagerness.  She  stripped  off  her  ornaments  as  hastily 
as  a  maiden  about  to  enter  a  bath  strewn  with  rose 


THE     SUTTEE 289 

leaves  on  the  morning  of  her  marriage.  Her  small 
hands  fluttered  like  little  birds.  There  was  a  faint 
clinking  sound  as  the  bracelets  fell  one  after  an- 
other. The  anklets  were  unclasped,  then  the  neck- 
laces, the  headband,  the  crescents,  and  the  diamond 
collar  lay  with  them — an  armful  of  preciousness 
dropped  in  the  dust  before  that  ultimate,  unlighted 
doorway,  whose  door  yields  only  to  one  key. 

Dil-Khusha  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  circle,  bare- 
footed and  with  untwisted  hair.  The  gilt-bordered 
silk  that  swathed  her  betrayed  the  young,  round 
beauty  of  her  body  and  her  face,  the  cheeks  just 
touched  with  gold  dust,  was  lovely  as  a  lily.  She 
was  scented  with  the  perfume  of  orange  flowers, 
like  a  virgin  who  is  about  to  become  a  bride. 

As  she  went  from  the  little  heap  of  discarded 
jewels  to  the  pyre  the  aged,  un wedded  woman, 
cowering  above  the  catseyes,  the  rubies  and  the  star 
sapphires,  watched  her  with  a  vast,  weary  wistful- 
ness.  The  door  of  her  desire  was  about  to  open, 
turning  upon  its  sweetly  sounding  hinges,  but  she, 
who  held  life  as  of  less  account  than  the  useless, 
vari-colored  pebbles  beneath  her  hands,  for  whose 
sake  men  lied  and  stole  and  slaughtered,  must  stay 
without  upon  the  threshold  stone.  The  pyre  had 
been  so  constructed  that  at  one  end  there  were 
rough  steps  formed  by  the  logs  of  which  the  heap 
was  built.  Up  these  the  girl  went  quickly,  and 


stood  upon  the  summit  at  the  feet  of  the  dead  man. 

The  thin  wail  of  a  young  baby  rose  in  the  abso- 
lute silence,  and  then  immediately  there  came  a  deep 
and  inarticulate  murmur  from  the  gathered  people 
— an  unanimous  many-throated  sigh  of  awe  and  of 
admiration.  And  always  the  unwearied  tom-toms 
throbbed. 

Dil-Khusha,  standing  upon  the  pyre,  saw  him 
who  had  been  her  husband  lying  as  if  asleep.  He 
was  clothed  like  a  bridegroom — clothed  as  he  had 
been  upon  the  day  of  her  Bride's  Choice,  and  the 
white  brocade  that  was  spread  beneath  him  had  the 
look  of  a  bridal  bed.  An  immeasurable  love  swept 
over  her.  Her  whole  nature  seemed  straining 
toward  him  like  a  creature  that  is  consumed  with 
thirst  and  is  held  back  by  a  single  cord.  She  was 
aware  of  nothing  save  the  dead  man,  her  irresist- 
ible love  and  that  she  was  about  to  go  to  him  as 
she  had  promised.  This  was  indeed  her  bridal  bed, 
and  her  bridegroom  waited.  A  joy  that  was  in- 
describable smote  through  her,  and  the  world  of  the 
senses  was  struck  suddenly  from  beneath  her  feet, 
leaving  only  the  beloved  face  of  a  man  she  adored. 

The  girl  who  had  stood  for  a  long  moment  mo- 
tionless upon  the  pyre  flung  up  her  bare,  young 
arms. 

"My  love — I  come  to  thee!" 

It  was  a  piercingly  clear  cry,  and  it  was  a  cry 


THE    SUTTEE 891 

of  joy.  And  even  as  it  was  uttered  Dil-Khusha 
swayed  forward,  her  knees  relaxed  and  she  fell 
face  downward  upon  the  breast  of  the  dead  man. 

Again  the  deep,  wordless  murmur  came  from  the 
crowd.  Half  a  dozen  lighted  torches  were  thrust 
simultaneously  between  the  logs,  already  soaked 
with  inflammable  oils  and  perfumes,  and  instantly 
thin,  licking  flames  shot  up. 

Above  the  tops  of  the  eastward  bamboos  a  pale 
splendor  shone,  bright  and  cold  as  a  large  white 
jewel.  It  was  the  herald  of  an  approaching  dawn. 


IV 

The  long  and  sinister  night,  which  had  completely 
enfolded  the  deer  forest  and  the  stark  bodies  of 
men  and  horses,  was  gradually  giving  place  to  an 
early  dawn.  The  keen,  sweet  smell  of  the  freshen- 
ing day  breeze  swept  through  the  forest,  and  the 
dawn  star  blazed  in  the  east  like  a  silver  lamp  held 
high  above  the  rim  of  the  world.  The  blackness  of 
the  night  receded  before  the  white  luster  of  the  bril- 
liant star,  and  the  little  dawn  wind  rustled  faintly 
in  the  bamboos,  fanning  into  greater  activity  the 
broad  flames  that  shot  upward  from  a  burning  pile 
of  wood. 

The  flaming  heap  of  logs  blazed  in  the  center  of 


292      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

an  empty  clearing,  lit  up  with  a  vivid,  pulsing  bright- 
ness. Away  at  the  farther  end  of  the  open  place 
an  elderly,  gray-bearded  man  with  jade  earrings 
stood  as  if  on  guard.  He  looked  steadily  upon  the 
ground,  his  strong  shoulders  bowed  and  rounded  as 
though  beneath  a  heavy  burden.  There  was  one 
other  in  the  deserted  clearing.  A  woman  in  white, 
drawn  a  little  back  from  the  beating  glare  of  the 
blaze  into  the  shadow  of  the  encircling  jungle.  And 
she  was  still  as  a  statue. 

Safa  never  moved  her  eyes  from  the  burning 
pyre.  It  held  her  as  the  gaze  of  a  snake  holds  a 
bird.  She  loathed  it,  feared  it,  and  was  drawn  by 
it.  The  biting  sense  of  self-reproach  never  left  her, 
and  she  thought  of  Dil-Khusha  as  of  a  miracle. 
The  young  girl's  spirit,  pure  and  serene,  had  climbed 
with  shining  feet  the  wavering  red-golden  stair  of 
fire,  and  was  even  now  in  the  embrace  of  her  hus- 
band. And  the  woman  who  had  turned  from  her 
sacred  duty  to  become,  innocently,  the  concubine  of 
a  dissolute  Mohammedan  captain,  watched  the  con- 
suming of  the  funeral  pyre  with  unwilling  eyes  that 
were  ashamed  and  suffering. 

The  last  of  the  villagers  had  gone  reluctantly 
some  time  ago.  They  must  needs  snatch  a  little 
sleep  before  it  was  full  day,  for  life  and  the  tasks 
of  life  are  as  running  water  that  waits  for  no  man, 
and  the  children  also  were  weary.  The  only  sounds 


THE     SUTTEE 293 

were  the  hollow  upward  roar  of  the  fire,  the  crackle 
of  the  burning  wood  and  the  shivering  rustle  of  the 
dawn  wind  in  the  bamboos. 

And  then,  without  a  shadow  of  warning,  a  third 
figure  appeared  in  the  clearing — a  boy. 

He  started  abruptly  out  of  the  jungle,  close  to 
the  woman  in  white,  and  staggered  forward  a  few 
steps,  his  face  lifted.  He  was  in  rich  velvet  raiment, 
but  bareheaded,  and  he  breathed  like  an  exhausted 
animal  that  has  been  driven  hard.  In  the  fierce 
light  of  the  aspiring  flames  his  raised  face,  faultless 
in  its  classic  purity  of  type,  was  revealed  piteously 
drawn  and  strained,  with  dilated  eyes,  widened  nos- 
trils, and  contracted  brows.  He  quivered  from  head 
to  foot  like  a  high-strung  horse  that  has  been  ridden 
without  mercy. 

After  his  first  few  blind  steps  forward  he  stopped 
short,  jerking  his  head  over  his  shoulder  with  an 
instinctive,  hunted  movement.  Then,  glancing  about 
him  in  a  dazed,  utterly  bewildered  fashion,  without 
seeming  to  know  that  he  was  speaking,  he  muttered 
two  or  three  almost  incoherent  sentences : 

"I  have  escaped  them.  .  .  .  They  would  have 
killed  me.  ...  It  is  a  monstrous  lie — it  was  coined 
to  madden  me.  ...  I  cannot  die  like  a  dog.  ..." 

He  turned  with  a  violent,  nervous  jerk,  suddenly 
aware  of  the  woman  and  of  her  nearness.  Safa, 
her  hand  at  her  breast,  was  gazing  at  him  in  an 


294      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

agony  that  appealed  desperately  and  pitifully, 
shrinking  meanwhile  as  from  an  unexpected  blow. 
He  knew  her  now  as  the  mother  he  had  most  bit- 
terly cursed,  as  well  as  the  woman  who  had  be- 
trayed his  hope,  and  yet 

Kama  Deva  stared  at  her  wildly  for  a  moment, 
and  then  a  fierce  hope  and  purpose  flamed  up  in 
his  hunted  eyes  that  were  dark  as  onyx  in  the  clear 
pallor  of  his  face.  With  a  few  steps  he  was  close 
beside  her. 

"Thou — my  mother — tell  me  the  truth!  They 
said  I  was  no  Vickram — but  it  is  a  lie !  Thou  know- 
est  it  is  a  lie — thou  who  didst  bear  me !  .  .  .  Swear 
to  me  that  I  am  Vickram's  son!" 

There  was  a  terrible  insistence  in  the  breathless 
voice.  The  shadow  of  an  unthinkable  doubt  which 
he  would  not  acknowledge  even  to  himself  was  ag- 
onizing him.  A  hint  of  sheer  abject  terror  dwelt 
furtively  at  the  back  of  his  dilated  eyes. 

But  if  one  desperate  question  obsesses  the  boy, 
another  hungrier  need  dominated  the  woman  and 
would  not  be  denied.  He  had  not  reproached  her — 
though  he  now  knew  her  as  his  mother. 

Safa  put  out  her  hand  toward  him  tremulously, 
as  one  craves  to  touch  a  holy  thing,  yet  dares  not, 
awaiting  some  sign  of  supernatural  consent. 

"Canst  thou  not  speak  one  simple  loving  word  to 


THE     SUTTEE  295 

me?  .  .  .  Let  me  but  take  thy  hand.  .  .  .  Let  me 
but  touch  thee.  .  .  .  ' 

Her  voice  broke.  Her  eyes  were  brimmed  with 
tears.  Her  whole  being  seemed  melted  into  a  hum- 
ble, piteous  pleading  that  was  like  the  pleading  for 
a  little  bread  of  one  at  once  famished  and  unworthy. 
But  Kama  Deva  put  aside  the  heart-broken,  pitiful 
request  as  a  man  bent  upon  some  vital  affair  disre- 
gards the  wistful  importunity  of  a  dog. 

"No — not  yet." 

There  was  a  curt  and  careless  impatience  in  the 
voice.  Then  he  cried  stormily :  "Canst  thou  not  see 
that  this  fiendish  lie  is  unendurable?  All  my  life  I 
have  thought  no  other  thought,  hoped  no  other 
hope,  prayed  no  other  prayer  than  for  revenge  on 
Vickram's  murderer.  Swear  that  I  am  his  son!" 

It  was  a  cry  of  utter,  almost  agonized,  despera- 
tion. The  boy,  urged  forward  by  a  hideous  doubt, 
was  grappling  with  it  wildly,  delirously,  upon  the 
very  verge  of  an  awful,  unthinkable  void  which  had 
gaped  suddenly  beneath  his  feet.  His  world  was 
tottering  like  a  statue  upon  a  shaken  pedestal. 

Safa  understood.  The  truth,  now  known  to  a 
few,  would  in  a  day  be  blazoned  in  the  ears  of 
many,  and  even  perhaps  the  true  paternity  of  the 
son  she  had  borne  to  be  made  known.  All  hope  was 
gone,  and  the  inevitable  revelation  would  be  infi- 


296      THE    SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

nitely  bitterer  than  death  .  .  .  yes,  than  death  .  .  . 
than  death.  .  .  . 

Her  eyes  were  tearless  now,  and  her  lips  did  not 
tremble.  She  looked  steadily  at  the  boy  and  spoke. 

"Yes,  I  swear  it!" 

A  great  light  of  inexpressible  relief  swept  in- 
stantly across  the  young,  strained  face.  The  boy 
seemed  to  straighten  as  he  stood  with  all  the  old 
superb,  defiant  pride.  Again  he  was  Kama  Deva, 
son  of  Vickram,  King  of  the  World. 

The  woman  stretched  out  her  hands  that  were 
tremulous  no  longer.  As  the  day  breaks  in  a  rap- 
ture of  flower-like  radiance  upon  the  gulfs  of  the 
sorrowful  dark,  a  wonderful  glory  of  joy  had 
dawned  in  her  face  and  in  her  eyes  at  last. 

"My  son!" 

He  came  to  her  acquiescent,  glowing  with  the 
pride  of  race  that  was  the  very  soul  of  him.  Her 
hungry  arms  were  about  him,  drawing  him  against 
the  breast  that  years  before  had  given  him  life  for 
a  little  while — drawing  him  close  and  closer.  As 
she  held  him  to  her  her  face  was  lifted  and  a  pure 
ecstasy  transfigured  it.  The  child  who  was  flesh 
of  her  flesh  and  bone  of  her  bone  was  in  her  arms 
at  last. 

The  unsteady  flame  light  beat  upon  the  jungle 
walls  of  the  clearing.  The  hyacinth  east  was  paler, 
and  the  freshening  dawn  wind  rustled  more  strongly 


THE    SUTTEE  297 

in  the  bamboos.  When  Safa  spoke  her  voice  was 
clear,  low  and  vibrant  as  the  golden  strings  of  a 
harp:  "For  this  one  moment  I  have  lived  a  life- 
time. .  .  .  My  precious  jewel!  .  .  .  How  much  I, 
thy  mother,  have  suffered  for  thee  thou  wilt  never 
know.  .  .  .  ' 

She  bent  her  head,  and  with  infinite  tenderness 
touched  his  brow  with  her  lips.  When  she  again 
raised  her  face  there  was  a  breathless  strangeness 
upon  it.  The  eyes  had  darkened  and  the  lips  were 
set  together  as  in  some  irrevocable  decision.  The 
face  was  devoid  of  grief  or  terror  as  is  surely  the 
face  of  the  angel  Azrael,  who  is  spoken  of  in  the 
creed  of  the  Mohammed.  And  the  gift  of  that  an- 
gel is  often  also  a  gift  of  great  love. 

As  she  held  him,  passive,  against  her  breast,  her 
right  hand  stole  to  his  side  and  very  softly  drew 
something  from  a  fringed  velvet  sheath. 

"To  save  a  soul  thou  lovest " 

It  was  a  strange,  dry  whisper.  Her  voice  rose 
in  a  sharp  half  cry:  "And  thus  I  save  thee  from 
thyself!" 

Her  right  hand  went  up.  A  narrow  streak  of 
steel  flashed  momentarily  in  the  firelight,  and  then 
was  plunged  deep  in  the  boy's  back. 

Kama  Deva  gave  one  deep,smothered  groan.  His 
head  fell  suddenly  back,  his  knees  gave  way,  and 
as  the  arms  that  were  about  him  loosened  involun- 


298      THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

tarily  he  fell  sideways,  rolled  partly  over,  and  lay 
with  his  face  turned  to  the  sky. 

The  dawn  star  was  waning.  Semi-luminous  rifts 
widened  low  in  the  east,  and  the  dawn  wind,  com- 
ing on  wide  wings,  scattered  the  flames  of  the  burn- 
ing logs  this  way  and  that  and  passed  on.  Safa 
stood  for  two  or  three  moments  unmoving  at  the 
feet  of  her  dead  son,  her  arms  at  her  sides.  Sud- 
denly a  wild  horror  dawned  in  her  face.  Her  hand 
went  to  her  throat. 

"Death.  .  .  .  Let  me  die.  ...  I  must  die.  .  .  ." 
It  was  a  dry,  toneless  gasp.  She  stooped,  putting 
out  her  hand  blindly  toward  the  boy's  body.  But 
the  knife  was  sunk  in  his  back  and  he  lay  face  up- 
ward. 

As  the  woman  withdrew  her  groping  hand,  turn- 
ing again  to  the  full  firelight,  a  flash  as  of  some 
extraordinary  perception  appeared  to  visit  her.  Her 
face  lightened  as  a  lamp  lightens  at  a  touch.  She 
had  the  look  of  one  who  perceives  all  in  a  moment, 
some  marvelous  fitness  or  fulfilment,  and  is  flooded 
with  an  eager,  vivid  joy. 

"The  fire !— my  fate !  ...  My  suttee !" 

A  quick,  glad  cry.  Instantly  she  turned  from  the 
dead  boy  to  the  flaring  pyre.  At  the  far  end  of  the 
clearing  Shitab  Rai  stood  with  bowed  head.  He  was 
as  one  deaf  and  blind,  thinking  of  a  broken  hope,  a 
riderless  bay  stallion,  and  of  a  city  wherein  there 


THE     SUTTEE 299 

was  no  man-child  at  play  in  the  empty  house  of  the 
Rajah. 

The  fresh  logs  of  which  the  pyre  was  built  burned 
stubbornly,  and  those  by  which  Dil-Khusha  had 
mounted  to  the  summit  were  still  intact.  The  steady 
dawn  wind,  coming-  out  of  the  east,  leveled  the 
flames  before  him,  sweeping  them  westward  as 
waves  of  grass  are  swept. 

As  Safa  came  to  the  foot  of  the  ascent  up  which 
the  girl  had  gone  the  blaze  was  blown  steadily  from 
before  her  face  as  though  the  fire  were  being  beaten 
back  by  unseen  hands  and  the  path  of  her  coming 
prepared  for  her.  The  heat  was  fierce  as  the  blast 
of  a  furnace,  and  the  log  steps  by  which  she  must 
climb  to  the  altar  of  her  ordained  fate  were  smoul- 
dering sullenly.  With  both  hands  pressed  tightly 
together  against  her  breast,  and  with  bright,  fixed, 
dilated  eyes  and  rigid  lines  set  in  the  curve  of  a 
slight,  strange  smile  she  began  quickly  to  ascend 
the  smouldering  logs  that  glowed  and  crackled  be- 
neath her  naked  feet. 

A  jet-black,  satin-skinned  stallion,  its  sides  torn 
by  the  spur,  broke  recklessly  out  into  the  open  and 
was  thrown  instantly  back  upon  its  quivering 
haunches  by  an  iron  hand.  The  man  in  the  high, 
gemmed  saddle  was  aware  of  a  sudden  blaze  of 
tawny  light,  of  a  sheet  of  low-blown  fire,  and  high 
on  the  summit  of  a  dark  and  glowing  pile,  dominat- 


300      THE     SUTTEE     OF    SAFA 

ing  for  a  moment  the  flames  that  were  driven  from 
about  her  feet  by  the  morning  wind,  the  tall  figure 
of  a  glorious  woman,  white  as  silver,  with  a  great 
oblong  ruby  between  her  brows. 

Realizing  nothing — comprehending  nothing — he 
knew  her  upon  the  instant,  and  the  passionate  cry 
of  his  whole  nature,  too  long  denied,  leapt  to  his 
lips. 

"Safa — my  answer!" 

She  heard  him.  As  she  stood  in  the  agonizing 
gate  of  death  with  shriveling  flames,  blown  like 
grass  about  her  feet,  she  saw  the  man  beneath,  the 
hot  breath  of  whose  desire  her  soul  had  broken  into 
fierce,  thirsty  bloom,  and  he  called  to  her  from  the 
life  which  she  had  left,  asking  for  an  answering 
love.  .  .  . 

In  that  brief  instant  a  vivid  vision  flashed  before 
the  woman  upon  the  burning  pyre.  She  saw  her- 
self the  consort  of  this  powerful  and  desirous  man; 
she  saw  a  period  of  passionate  joy  and  hot  delight; 
she  saw  the  gradual  waning  of  the  full  moon  of 
sensuous  rapture;  she  saw  the  procession  of  the 
stale  and  aching  years  when  the  passion  of  the  flesh 
has  become  a  handful  of  embers  upon  a  hearth  that 
has  grown  cold,  and  with  a  dazzling  spiritual  clear- 
ness she  knew  she  had  chosen  that  which  was  best. 

Her  unquenchable  love  for  him  leapt  upward  like 
a  white  flame  upon  an  altar.  Her  arms,  widely 


THE     SUTTEE  301 

opened,  went  out  toward  him,  and  her  voice  came  to 
him,  strong,  clear  and  glad  with  the  truth. 

"Akbar,  I  love  thee ! — I'll  wait  for  thee  Beyond!" 

For  one  long  moment  she  stood  so,  with  her  beau- 
tiful bare  arms  extended  as  though  she  yearned  to 
take  his  head  against  her  heart;  then  with  a  hollow 
roar  the  fire  swept  up  about  her,  shooting  skyward, 
and  the  pyre  was  a  pillar  of  flame  that  wavered 
torch-like  in  the  morning  wind. 

Akbar  had  sprung  from  the  saddle  even  as  she 
spoke  his  name,  going  blindly  to  her.  As  the  long 
flames  shot  roaring  upward  he  fell  back  a  step, 
dazed  utterly,  smitten  by  the  ardent  heat,  and  in 
that  moment  his  foot  struck  the  stark  body  of  Kama 
Deva.  Involuntarily  he  turned,  stooped,  saw  the 
glazed,  half-open  eyes — the  parted  ashen  lips — and 
understood. 

Without  a  sound  the  strong  man  who  was  hailed 
as  if  in  mockery  as  the  Lord  of  Life  and  Death, 
fell  on  his  knees  before  a  tall  pile  of  fiercely  blazing 
wood  and  bowed  himself  even  to  the  dust. 

In  the  east  the  radiant  dawn  of  a  new  day  had 
come. 


It  was  midnight,  and  a  full  white  moon  stared 
unsparingly  down  upon  a  stricken  city.     The  sear- 


302      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

ing,  silver  glare  of  a  dead  world  poured  its  reflected 
radiance  upon  a  world  held  in  a  stupor  of  sleep,  a 
world  the  very  pulse  of  whose  manifold  life  was 
pain,  multifold,  multiform,  unutterable,  inevitable. 

Upon  the  death-cold  bosom  of  this  unpitying  mid- 
night was  set  a  single  slight,  golden  glitter,  warm 
as  a  hearth  fire,  but  purer,  steady  and  bright.  It 
proceeded  from  a  ring  of  oil-fed  flames  encircling 
an  image  of  the  god  Siva,  who  sat  in  his  oil-an- 
ointed shrine  garlanded  with  wilted  marigolds. 

The  street  before  the  little  Hindu  temple  was 
white  with  moonlight,  and  the  front  of  the  temple 
was  black  with  shadow.  The  grotesque,  clustered, 
sacred  carvings  with  which  its  stone  eaves  were 
overloaded  were  touched  here  and  there  with  light 
as  though  with  the  tips  of  silver  fingers.  The  naked 
knees  and  the  hollow  lap  and  the  lax  hands,  rest- 
ing palm-upward,  of  a  man  who  sat  at  the  edge 
of  the  temple  platform  between  the  pillars,  were 
splashed  also  with  the  warmthless  argent  of  the 
night.  Or  was  he  the  rigid  effigy  of  a  man,  in- 
human as  the  stone  idol  seated  in  his  circle  of  lamps 
at  the  extreme  rear  of  his  long,  narrow,  passage- 
like  shrine  with  open  doors? 

The  figure  at  the  edge  of  the  temple  platform 
did  not  move.  It  had  not  moved  for  twenty  days. 
All  through  the  hot,  throbbing  daylight  hours  the 


THE     SUTTEE 803 

ceaseless  worshippers  had  passed  up  and  down  the 
temple  steps,  coming  and  going. 

"He  is  holy,"  they  had  said  to  one  another. 
"Neither  bread  nor  water  hath  passed  his  lips  for 
twenty  days." 

And  the  little  children  playing  in  the  dust  before 
the  temple  whispered :  "He  is  holy.  His  spirit  has 
flown  away  from  him  like  a  bird.  It  will  come  back 
to  him  as  our  pigeons  return  to  the  dovecote." 

Half  in  moonlight  and  half  in  darkness  was  the 
still  figure  on  the  temple  platform.  It  was  seated 
cross-legged,  stiff  as  wood,  with  closed  eyes.  Save 
for  a  loin-cloth,  the  man  was  naked,  and  there  was 
neither  caste  mark  nor  the  dust  of  ashes  upon  him. 

On  every  side  the  awe  and  silence  of  the  night 
and  the  chill  of  its  inhuman  tranquillity  rested  upon 
the  city  like  a  gigantic  outspread  hand,  heavy  and 
cold  as  marble.  Beneath  it  grief  lay  wide-eyed  and 
fear  slept  fitfully.  ' 

A  single  dark  figure  moved  in  the  street  before 
the  temple — a  tall  man,  squarely  built,  shrouded  in 
gorgeous  purple  silk.  The  luster  of  a  fabulous  white 
gem  shimmered  upon  his  white  turban.  He  ad- 
vanced slowly,  walking  in  the  heavy  shadows  of 
the  night.  It  was  as  though  grief  that  could  not 
sleep  had  risen  and  was  now  approaching  the  shrine 
of  the  god  Siva. 


304      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

Now  the  man  who  wandered  at  midnight  in  the 
silent  ways  of  a  sleeping  city  had  reached  the  steps 
before  the  temple  door  and  the  shadow  of  the  tem- 
ple enfolded  him.  He  paused,  turning  his  face  to 
the  feeble  yellow  radiance  that  came  from  the  oil 
lamp  about  the  idol — the  lifeless  stone  inhabitant  of 
the  temple  to  whom,  through  all  the  ever-lengthen- 
ing days  and  months  and  years  men  came  continu- 
ally to  lay  their  grievous  burdens.  They  bowed 
worshipfully  at  the  feet  of  the  thing  they  had  fash- 
ioned with  their  own  hands. 

The  wanderer  slowly  withdrew  his  gaze  from 
the  enshrined  image  hung  with  ropes  of  marigolds 
and  turned,  wearily  as  it  seemed,  from  the  door  of 
the  shrine. 

"Peace  be  with  thee." 

It  was  a  strange,  quiet  voice,  with  a  curious  deep 
note  in  it,  and  it  carried  a  tranquillity  that  may  not 
be  expressed  in  words. 

The  tall,  broad  man,  shrouded  in  dark  raiment, 
stood  motionless,  regarding  the  speaker  whom  he 
had  not  seen  before.  The  bare,  rigid  figure,  seated 
cross-legged  upon  the  temple  platform  had  not 
stirred,  but  the  large,  sunken  eyes  were  open  and 
they  were  fixed  strangely  and  luminously  upon  the 
other.  From  the  fallen  face,  lean  as  famine,  yet 
serene  as  the  countenance  of  one  who  has  passed 
softly  from  sleep  to  death,  looked  out  a  marvelous 


THE     SUTTEE 305 

and  a  superhuman  peace,  beautiful  as  the  radiant 
day  dawning  upon  us  after  a  night  of  terror. 

"Thy  soul  is  clothed  in  a  sorrow  greater  than 
anything  thou  hadst  conceived,"  went  on  the  strange 
inward  voice.  "By  day  and  by  night  thou  dost 
seek  for  that  which  may  soothe  thy  sorrow.  Even 
here,  at  the  threshold  of  Siva,  dost  thou  seek  for  it. 
Js  it  not  so,  my  brother?" 

The  other  man  spoke  now,  heavily  and  huskily. 
He  had  drawn  nearer  to  the  naked  seated  figure 
whose  lips  alone  moved. 

"It  is  so.  The  light  of  my  life  is  darkened  ut- 
terly and  there  is  no  other  light.  ...  I  have 
cursed  the  day  on  which  I  was  born.  ...  I  would 
terminate  the  life  that  is  in  me  with  my  own  hand. 
Beyond  this  life  I  see  only  darkness  and  rottenness 
and  a  forgetting  of  all  things,  which  is  more  unen- 
durable even  than  pain.  ...  If  it  were  otherwise 
would  not  the  dead  speak  out  of  the  darkness  to 
those  who  mourn  for  them,  granting  hope  to  the 
desolate  ?" 

He  had  striven  to  speak  evenly,  and  in  a  cold  and 
level  voice,  but  the  last  words  came  in  a  shaken 
cry  begotten  by  a  raw  agony  of  spirit  that  could  not 
be  held  silent. 

The  figure  at  the  edge  of  the  temple  platform 
spoke  again,  gazing  with  luminous,  unmoving  eyes. 

"Thou  art  blind,  my  brother.    Thou  art  fettered 


806      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

wholly  to  the  world  of  sense,  which  is  the  world  of 
illusion,  and  that  which  is  behind  and  beneath  and 
above  hath  slipped  from  thee  as  water  slips  from  a 
sieve.  Thou  art  a  man  wise  in  many  things,  yet  in 
these  matters  thou  resemblest  a  little  child  which 
demands  the  moon  as  a  plaything  and  does  not 
comprehend  that  which  it  asks.  Open  thine  eyes 
and  look  to  the  right  and  to  the  left.  What  seest 
thou  ?  Grief  and  fear  and  doubt  and  wrong  heaped 
upon  wrong  until  no  man  may  put  forth  his  hand 
and  part  the  cause  which  is  just  from  the  cause 
which  is  unjust;  and  above  all  these  things,  and 
mightier  than  all  these  things — yea,  overshadowing 
the  whole  earth  as  with  wings  of  darkness,  is  pain, 
whose  arm  no  man  born  of  woman  may  avert  from 
him,  and  whose  hand  is  upon  every  living  creature 
from  the  least  even  to  the  greatest.  And  when  thou 
hast  seen  that  it  is  even  so  thou  seekest  within  thy- 
self for  some  answer  to  this  seeming  riddle,  and  that 
answer  thou  hast  not  found.  My  brother,  I  have 
sought  for  that  answer  as  many  have  sought  before 
me,  and  as  many  shall  seek  after  me,  and  my  seek- 
ing has  not  been  void." 

The  voice  ceased  and  the  silence  of  the  night 
pressed  heavily  upon  them  in  the  waiting  pause. 
The  man  who  sought  for  peace  and  the  man  who 
had  found  it  were  equally  motionless.  The  strange 
voice  went  on: 


THE     SUTTEE 307 

"I  am  a  Brahmin.  For  ten  years  I  have  inquired 
after  the  hidden  truth  that  lieth  behind  the  things 
of  sense.  I  have  overcome  the  impediment  of  my 
flesh,  and  have  liberated  my  spirit  as  you  may  liber- 
ate a  bird  from  its  cage,  and  this,  oh  man,  is  the 
truth  as  it  hath  been  made  plain  to  me.  .  .  .  The 
down  of  a  thistle,  the  seeds  of  the  cotton  plant,  a 
dead  leaf  dancing  in  the  wind — of  what  account  are 
these?  Yet  I  say  unto  thee  that  of  even  less  ac- 
count is  the  life  of  men  and  of  the  senses,  save  as  it 
beareth  upon  that  which  is  to  come.  .  .  .  This  life 
which  thou  livest  even  now  it  is  but  a  little  dream 
poised  for  a  breath  betwixt  the  reality  that  came  be- 
fore and  the  reality  that  follows  after,  and  He 
that  fashioned  both  the  dream  and  the  reality 
holdeth  it  within  the  hollow  of  his  hand.  Thou  art 
afflicted  in  thy  dream  with  the  semblance  of  much 
suffering.  My  brother,  in  the  visions  of  thy  sleep 
art  thou  not  likewise  troubled,  distracted  often  with 
strange  fears?  But  when  morning  has  come,  and 
with  unsealed  eyes  thou  seest  the  gladness  of  the 
light,  and  the  rose  tree  flowering  at  the  ivory  win- 
dow lattice,  and  hearest  the  low  laughter  of  her 
who  is  the  beloved  of  thine  heart,  dost  thou  not 
laugh  within  thyself  at  the  terror  of  the  dream 
which  hath  departed?  Even  in  like  manner  shall 
it  be  with  thee  when  this  brief  illusion  is  ended  and 
thine  eyes  have  opened  upon  that  which  endureth. 


808      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAFA 

.  .  .  Death,  my  brother,  is  but  the  cool  and  tender 
hand  which  rouses  thee  as  with  a  light  touch  from 
thy  troubled  dreaming.  It  is  the  veiled  handmaiden 
who  openeth  softly  the  door  of  joy  and  of  under- 
standing. It  is  the  threshold  which  divideth  truth 
from  illusion,  blindness  from  clear  seeing,  gladness 
from  pain.  .  .  .  ' 

Again  the  voice  ceased.  The  luminous,  unflinch- 
ing eyes  were  brilliant,  wonderful. 

"How  art  thou  sure  that  it  is  even  as  thou 
sayest  ?" 

It  was  a  question,  low-voiced,  hesitant,  charged 
with  a  troubled  doubt. 

The  voice  answered  it  immediately:  "Oh  man, 
who  art  fettered  to  the  flesh  as  with  chains  of  iron, 
how  shouldst  thou  comprehend  the  flight  hither  and 
thither  of  the  seeking  spirit  which  hath  been  liber- 
ated by  fast  and  vigil  and  by  the  long  effort  of  the 
instructed  will?  But  that  thou  mayest  know  that 
the  word  which  I  have  revealed  unto  thee  is  the  very 
truth,  thou  shalt  have  a  sign  and  a  token.  .  .  . 
Twenty  days  ago  I  sent  my  spirit  from  out  my 
body  to  gather  truth.  It  journeyed  far,  and  in  its 
journeyings  it  met  with  one  whom  thou  didst  desire 
beyond  all  other  creatures,  and  for  whom  thy  soul 
is  afflicted  even  now " 

The  hand  of  his  questioner,  which  had  rested 
passively  upon  the  breast-high  temple  platform, 


THE     SUTTEE 309 

clenched  until  the  bones  of  the  knuckles  almost 
started  through  the  skin. 

"And  she  whom  thou  hast  so  loved  and  who  hath 
been  denied  unto  thee  spoke  with  my  spirit,  and  I 
learned  of  a  promise  that  she  had  given,  pledging 
her  to  await  thee  in  the  after-life,  for  the  greatness 
of  her  love  for  thee  was  equal  to  thine." 

"Thou  hast  spoken  truth!  That  promise  alone 
hath  stood  betwixt  me  and  the  despair  which  hath 
nearly  strangled  my  soul!  Man!  does  her  love  live 
still?  Is  there  reunion?  Speak!  in  the  name  of 
God,  who  hath  created  thee !" 

"My  brother,  love  dieth  not,  even  as  life  dieth 
not.  The  love  of  this  woman,  fragrant  as  musk, 
pure  as  the  holy  Himalayas,  and  beautiful  as  the 
dawn  of  day,  awaiteth  thee  according  to  the  promise 
which  was  made  to  thee  as  she  stood  in  the  embrace 
of  death.  If  thou  hadst  indeed  possessed  her  ac- 
cording to  the  manner  of  the  flesh  it  would  not  have 
been  so,  my  brother,  for  thou  art  a  man  who  hath 
steeped  thy  being  in  the  gratification  of  the  senses, 
drugging  thy  better  part,  and  satisfaction  would 
have  brought  satiety,  and  after  that  distaste,  and 
the  ashes  of  love  would  have  become  an  exceeding* 
bitterness  in  the  mouth  of  thy  spirit.  But  it  hath 
not  been  so,  and  when  this  life  of  the  five  senses, 
which  is  naught  but  a  little  dream  held  in  the  hol- 
lowed hands  of  the  Creator,  hath  fled  away  like  the 


310      THE     SUTTEE     OF     SAP  A 

swift  shadows  of  the  night,  and  that  which  is  true 
and  actual  and  immutable  hath  come  to  pass,  thou 
shalt  be  taken  to  the  pure  bosom  of  her,  as  a  loving 
bridegroom  to  the  bosom  of  his  virgin  bride.  Thou 
shalt  see  and  know  and  understand  that  the  pains 
and  partings  of  this  short  life-dream  are  as  in- 
tangible and  fugitive  and  bodiless  as  the  phan- 
tasms of  one  who  hath  smoked  the  seed  of  the  white 
poppy,  and  that  thou  hast  indeed  passed  from  sleep 
to  waking.  For  the  life  of  the  five  senses  is  a 
brief  and  a  blind  thing,  and  of  no  account,  while 
death  is  a  door  of  sandalwood  that  turneth  upon 
silver  hinges,  and  that  which  lieth  beyond  it  is  vaster 
than  any  man  may  comprehend.  .  .  .  ' 

In  the  long  silence  that  followed,  the  moonlight 
and  the  shadows  of  the  moonlight;  the  light  in  the 
shrine  of  Siva,  the  silhouette  on  the  facade  of  the 
carven  temple  and  the  whole  immensity  of  the  mys- 
terious Indian  night  seemed  to  be  set  in  a  fixed  and 
breathless  expectancy— waiting. 

"Art  thou  content,  my  brother  ?" 

And  he  answered  slowly: 

"I  am  content." 


END 


J.  DEPARTURE  IN  FICTION  WRITING,  7JV- 
STRUCTION  AND  ENTERTAINMENT  COMBINED 


IRubra 


H  IRomance  of  Hncfent 


BY 
ARTHUR  J.  WESTERMAYR 

Author  of  "  Potoer  of  Innocence  " 

A  Fascinating:,   Thrilling,  and   Educational   Romance  of 
Ancient  India 

HLTHOUGH  the  theme  is  fiction,  its  setting 
is  authentic  and  based  on  the  best  avail- 
able historic  data;    and,  with  the  aid  of 
carefully  prepared  foot-notes  and  a  thorough 
alphabetical  glossary,  the  book  will   serve  the 
dual  purpose  of  entertainment  and  instruction. 
The  interesting  life,  religious  rites  and  com- 
prehensive   philosophies,    habits,    customs   and 
social  forms,  the  art,  artistry  and  architecture 
of  this  ancient  people  who  so  extensively  influ- 


enced  the  civilizations  of  Europe  (and  it  is 
believed  by  some,  of  Egypt,  Persia,  and  the  Far 
East),  are  all  treated  with  appreciative  con- 
sideration, the  result  of  nearly  ten  years  of 
exhaustive  research. 

Reincarnation,  that  beautiful  and  poetic  con- 
ception of  the  Vedic  and  Buddhistic  Hindu,  is 
used  to  evolve  the  plot  attractively  and  it  affords 
ample  opportunity  for  vivid  and  dramatic 
exploitation. 

The  action  is  quick  and  effective,  the  por- 
trayal of  human  passion  sincere  and  vigorous, 
the  incidents  are  heart-gripping,  while  the  love 
motive,  tender  and  moving,  binds  the  plot  as 
with  a  band  of  purest  gold. 

If  the  reader  thinks  these  statements  are 
dangerously  near  the  margin  where  modesty 
ceases,  it  is  hoped  judgment  will  be  suspended 
until  perusal  of  the  work  results  in  full  acquittal. 

The  book  is  made  in  the  most  approved  style 
and  taste,  so  that  its  externals  make  an  appeal 
artistically,  as  the  contents  are  expected  to  do 
intellectually. 


©pinions  of  Experts 


MARION  MILLS  MILLER,  LiU.D.  (Princeton) 

"I  read  the  manuscript  of  your  novel,  Rudra,  at  one 
sitting  with  unflagging,  indeed,  with  increasing  interest,  for 
the  plot  is  so  strongly  builded  that  every  development  in  it 
not  only  fulfilled  but  exceeded  my  anticipation.  In  the 
manner  of  a  Greek  tragedian  you  have  fore-shadowed  the 
end  long  before  it  is  reached  and  thrittingly  achieved  the 
expected,  which  to  my  mind  is  a  greater  triumph  than  agree- 
ably surprising  the  reader  with  the  unexpected. 

"The  design  of  the  work  is  thoroughly  artistic.  Book  I 
leads  up  to  a  most  dramatic  climax,  powerful  in  its  outward 
tragedy,  and  yet  still  more  powerful  in  its  psychological 
import.  Here  the  situation  is  created  which  Book  II  is  to 
solve;  this  it  does  in  completely  adequate  fashion:  Nemesis 
pursues  the  hero  to  the  very  end,  when  expiation  of  his 
crime  is  accomplished  at  a  burst  like  that  of  the  sun  through 
storm  clouds,  dissipating  them,  and  giving  assurance  of 
peace  and  joy. 

"But  the  book  is  more  than  a  novel.  In  addition  to  its 
narrative  interest,  and  to  my  mind  enhancing  this,  it 
possesses  scholarly  value,  presenting  in  active,  operative 
form  the  customs  and  beliefs  of  ancient  India  for  which 
the  reader  heretofore  has  had  to  seek  in  the  lifeless  dis- 
quisitions of  antiquarians. 

"The  work  therefore  peculiarly  appeals  to  the  highest 
class  of  fiction  readers,  those  who  appreciate  artistic  story- 
telling and  at  the  same  time  desire  to  carry  away  from  the 


perusal  of  every  book,  even  a  novel,  a  vivid  impression  of 
things  worth  knowing.  Theosophists  in  particular  will 
endorse  the  book,  recommending  it  to  those  desiring  infor- 
mation about  the  origin  and  the  nature  of  their  philosophy. 
Therefore  the  work  is  assured  of  an  audience,  even  though 
the  'fiction  gluttons'  pass  it  by  as  meat  too  nourishing  for 
their  depraved  taste. 

M.  M.  MILLER." 

PROFESSOR  A.  V.  WILLIAMS  JACKSON 

(Holding  Chair  of  Indo-European  Literature,  Columbia  Uni- 
versity, N.  F.) 

"I  was  interested  in  glancing  over  your  romantic  narra- 
tive of  the  Rudra — a  theme  which  gives  good  scope  for 
description  as  well  as  dramatic  action — and  it  seems  to  me 
that  such  a  story  will  find  appreciative  readers  among  a 
cultured  circle,  owing  to  the  element  of  special  attraction 
which  scenes  laid  in  early  India  possess.  Hearty  thanks 
for  letting  me  have  a  glimpse  of  the  prospective  book,  and 
best  wishes  for  its  success. 

A.  V.  WILLIAMS  JACKSON." 

MARVIN  DANA,  Esq.,  Literary  Expert 

"This  story  contains  a  novel  and  ingenious  plot.  More- 
over, it  is  well  written.  .  .  .  The  book  reveals  a  deal  of 
erudition  on  the  writer's  part.  In  this  quality  of  the  work 
the  merit  is  from  the  amount  of  interesting  material  here 
given  concerning  ancient  India's  customs,  religion,  myths 
and  traditions.  .  .  .  Personally  I  have  derived  much 
pleasure  from  the  manuscript,  since  its  theme  and  its 
setting  alike  make  particular  appeal  to  me. 

MARVIN  DANA." 
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Bucky  O'Connor 

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BAT— An  Idyl  of  New  York 

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Popular  Detective  Stories 
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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-Series  4939 


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